


HARQ: Vol. 1

by TheHatefulM8s



Series: HARQ [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-01-06 15:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18391211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHatefulM8s/pseuds/TheHatefulM8s
Summary: The Huntsmen are in decline. A cast of new hopeful warriors steps up to take Beacon's infamous entry test in what could be the school's final year in operation. But as the test begins, an unexpected terror comes to roost in Beacon's woods, and the consequences for failure become a turning point for the school's survival.





	1. Prologue

Disclaimer: HARQ is a fanwork of the Rooster Teeth Animated Production RWBY. All characters from the original cast of RWBY are owned by Rooster Teeth.

Thanks to Hector for Editing.  
...

Tin Steadfast woke in the middle of the night grasping at a twisting burn in his left leg. A second of blind groping reminded him that he had nothing there below his thigh. He sat up, hunched in the dark for a long minute, before feeling out the lamp on the bed stand next to him.

"Goddamnit!" He squeezed his eyes shut, used muscle memory to slide open a drawer, and pulled out a handheld mirror. He scooted to the edge of his bed and settled his right leg firmly on the shack floors.

"Blasted magic trick," he groaned, voice pitching as he leaned forward and strained his back, "more trouble than it's worth."

He passed the mirror slowly up and down his right leg, beyond where his left should've been. Slowly, the pain began to recede as some detached part of his brain imagined his body whole again. Tin sighed and smiled.

"Well," he muttered, "maybe just worth it." He flicked off the lamp and laid back in bed, listening to the night bugs in the desert valley outside. On the edge of sleep, he noticed light seeping in from under his bedroom door. Someone was downstairs.

Hunter instincts took over. He shot up and faced the door, one hand slipping behind his headboard to grasp the handle of a trusted revolver. He'd become duller than he'd thought if someone could waltz into his house without waking him.

He thumbed back on the hammer and let out his best threat.

"Whoever's playing games out there," he growled, his throat skinned by years worth of tobacco, "you get out of my house or I shoot!"

There was utter silence from beyond the door. He considered options. Maybe he'd fire the gun out his window and put some real terror in the intruder.

"I heard you come in, you dumbass, and I gave you ten minutes to scurry off, but now your times up!" Another long silence followed.

"No you didn't," a familiar voice called out, "I've been here an hour already, Huntmaster." Tin slid the hammer back into place and returned his gun back to its holster. He sat in bed for a moment, seething, before he hurled his pillow at the door. He went for the aluminum crutches in their resting spot on his right side. His fingers knocked them to the floor.

"Buzzard's guts!" He leaned, too far, and tumbled out of bed. His aura flared around him in a smokey-silver wave of color that spared him any injury.

"I'm fine," he shouted to his unwelcome guest, "don't help me!"

"I wasn't going to," she said. Tin righted himself after a minute of struggle and slid his wrists into place. He swung himself to the door and put on his ugliest scowl before opening it.

"Raven," he grumbled, taking in the sight of a lone Huntress at his one-person table. She was still dressed in her field gear, sans the menacing white helmet, and was seated in one of two plastic rolling chairs at his table. One was serving as a footrest for her right foot. Tin glared at an empty Ming's Pale Ale bottle on the table and another slowly emptying in her hand.

"Oh, by all means," he groaned, moving slowly into the large single room outside his bedroom. It was his kitchen, lounge, and main entryway all at once. "Make yourself right at home. Have a drink."

"I did," she said, gesturing to the ales, "your supply is due for restock. Stuff tastes like bottled bread."

"What are you doing here?" He held back a groan when he saw her a twinkle in her eyes, like a pair of garnets.

"Hmm.. Maybe I'm the Summer Maiden," she said playfully, " come to tell you I'm looking for my sisters and wanted to stop in at your hut."

"Cut the crap! It's goddamn three in the goddamn morning!" His voice thundered throughout the shack. Raven winced and made a show of cleaning out one ear.

"I'm only here because Vulp Derryo said you wanted to see me when I got back to the Den."

"And did they say I was answering midnight visitors as well, Hunter Branwen?" The women gave a shrug and took another sip of his beer. He went to the fridge and rummaged around for a Ming's of his own, swearing again when he knocked a bottle to the kitchen floor.

"Don't help me!"

"Don't worry, I won't," Raven said, watching him over her shoulder, past her long black locks.

"Damnation."

"Such language, Tin, what would your mentor say if she caught you swearing like a soldier?" Tin used the counter to lever himself back up, drink in hand, and then used it again to crack off the cap. After a draw, he answered.

"She'd say nothing if I remember old Bo Brindle right. She'd give me a few knocks on the head for it and leave it at that. A sort of teaching that's woefully out of style nowadays." Raven drowned a snort of laughter in another sip of ale.

"Like you'd hit a child, Tin Steadfast," she said, "the moon would reform first."

"You're not a child, Raven," he said.

"Compared to you, old man, everyone is a still a child," she said, smiling when Tin couldn't keep a straight face.

"Alright, kid, you win," he said, "no more banter or wordplay. Really, you've one-upped me…this time. Now, I did want to see you when you got in, though I figured we'd meet when the sun was in the sky."

"Well it's morning in Atlas about now," she said, smirking around the bottle. "That good enough?"

"All right, enough with that!" Tin held up his hand and calmed himself. He went to his chair, shaking it until Raven moved her foot.

"I'm on vacation for the week," he said, "Vulp gets all clenched up if I'm still hanging around before initiation results come in…"

"Well, you do get antsy about all the little Huntlings we manage to net. I'll grant Vulp that much." Tin's face scrunched up.

"I know," he began again with some effort, "which is why I take the vacation and use it to think about the big 'five-year plan' announcements and such. The other day I came to a few hard conclusions, and…"

"And one of the schools has to close." Tin's fist slammed onto the table. Raven's empty bottle jolted and rolled over the edge. She snatched it out of the air in a deft motion.

"Would you stop doing that? Yes! Yes! One of the schools needs to close and I wasn't lucky enough to die before it happened! So now…now I gotta make a choice. And I haven't even begun to come up with which one or why, but I wanted to ask you when you got back. I wanted to get your read on…"

"Beacon." Tin turned red and his whole body shook with anger, but a second later he deflated and slumped into his chair.

"That wasn't even my question. But… Beacon? Your old school? Raven, I know better than anyone the crap you were going through there, but why Beacon?" Raven rolled her eyes at the hurt in the old man's voice.

"Four Hunters, trained as a team, are not necessarily better than one. That's all Beacon claims to have on anyone else."

"Crap," Tin said. He looked at her with mild disappointment. "Crap and you know it. Don't feed me that old line. I've got a great example of a Beacon grad who works better than most other school's. She broke into my house and stole two of my beers. And didn't bother wiping off her grimy boots before marching around my kitchen, by the way! All in the middle of the night, too." Raven kept a cool face.

"I'm good, Tin, I know that. But I work best alone, and my team…well, think about my team for a moment." She watched him twist and squirm on his own hook for a few seconds before he nodded.

"Alright, but…but that was a special case. And there are other people who do just fine going solo. And when a Beacon team gets back together to tackle something, you can count the day saved." Raven shrugged and finished her drink.

"Second choice," Tin said at once, "pretend Beacon's off the table." The Huntress made a face as she started her second ale.

"Spotlight then," she said.

"Aw, Raven," Tin groaned, "you're killing me with this! Not Spotlight! That school always gets the bad word from people who didn't go there. Some of the best Hunters of our order came from that school, but it's always the unwanted stepchild of every conversation. You know, Bard Avon's doing things with dust at that school that would make your head spin, Raven Branwen, and…" Tin trailed off at the flat look Raven was giving him. He scratched his wrinkled chin.

"Bard has taken way too many liberties with the 'art-school weapons development' stuff for my tastes, Tin. He should be training Hunters, first and foremost, and I don't trust him to roll the rest back. A school like that needs to justify itself in the best of times, so why keep it open in the worst? It'll make any other choice seem inane by comparison. Form follows function, Tin."

"One more, please, I'm begging you, Raven, give me any other school assuming…"

"Signal," she said, her voice carrying a sharp edge. She was getting visibly exhausted with this game. Tin pulled a few faces like he was constipated and Raven stopped holding back.

"What, Tin? What now?! Just say it!"

"James has worked hard," he roared, "he has done his best to keep a solid number of graduates each year. Some go to the military, I know, that was the devil's bargain we had to make, but…"

"Some? It was one in thirty back at the start, Tin, and how many is it now?" Raven leaned forward like a vulture over a dying man.

"Maybe three in thirty." Tin scratched his chin once more, looking away.

"That's one in ten, Tin, and it will get worse. Give Signal up, like you should have done back when we made a 'devil's bargain', and move on. It does produce good Hunters. But it doesn't produce only Hunters. It's a gangrenous limb. Cut it off, or give it the care it needs. And don't ask me for another recommendation."

"I'm sorry," Tin begged. He looked over his shoulder into a small den with a moth-eaten rug between an easy-chair and an out of date television. Above them was a wall of pictures. The whole side of the house was taken up by photographs from 73 years of Tin Steadfast's life.

There was the black-and-white photo of his Grandpappy holding him when Tin was three. Not far from that one he stood next to a smiling graduate, little blonde-haired Hunig Geat, who today was Headmaster of Haven Academy. A recent digital photo displayed, in startling colors, a hike he'd taken with Vulp Derryo to the top of Mount Geb on the Valley's northern edge when the sky was deep blue and the noon sun made the valley glow. In a place of honor, by the front door to be seen first coming in and last leaving was a wedding photo of a pink-haired woman and one-legged man that always made Tin touch his ring-finger.

At the heart of all those moments was a photo of a Faunus woman and man with the ears of wolves. They had their arms around a young man with jet black hair and two working legs. It was the last photo the Brindle Siblings took together. The dates were always fuzzy for Tin now, but he remembered that exactly five months after that picture the Hunter Schism would begin.

"Huntmaster? Grumpy old Wizard? Tin!" Raven stood and yelled at him at last.

"What? What?" Tin blinked at her frantically for a moment, remembering where he was.

"You got lost in the old days, looks like," she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Get off my back, Raven, I'm old. I've got more past than future at this point," he mumbled.

"So what's your plan, Tin?" she asked as she took back her seat. The old Hunter stared at his calloused hands and gave a tired shrug.

"Maybe it's time I step down," he said, heaving a big sigh, "finally let someone else take over. Somebody who can make these tough choices."

"Tin Steadfast, I'll kill you if you ask me to take over the Hunters." At that, Tin burst into laughter so raucous that Raven began to take offense.

"Sorry, it's just…Elder Brother be good," he said with a chuckle, "the pushback I'd get for that is almost worse than closing a school." Raven, surprised at how sour that made her feel, grunted in response. Tin caught her mood as his laughter subsided.

"Hey," Tin boomed as he pointed a finger at her firmly, "you nevermind them, Raven Branwen. You're damn good at killing Grimm, and you mostly make good decisions. That's all any Hunter can be asked to do. You've got a good head on your shoulders. You must, you're so damn headstrong all the time."

"I thought we were through with wordplay?" Raven's frown remained but there was a touch of mischief in her voice once again.

"I'm the Huntmaster," Tin said, winking, "I get to break my own rules." That brought a little smile to her sharp features.

"We really are kids to you, aren't we, Tin? Still trying to keep us from talking bad about each other and getting caught up in little fights. Talking to us like we're in the principal's office. A principal's office with beer."

"Everyone's still the kid they used to be deep down," Tin said, "Bo told me that once. You remind me of her sometimes." Raven smiled and shook her head as she heard the comparison made for the hundredth time.

"Did Bo Brindle really talk in all these platitudes, Tin? Or is she how you test your new ideas for quotes?" Tin drew himself up proudly and crossed his arms. His beer was finished and he had a healthy glow in his cheeks.

"She was the wisest woman I ever knew, Raven, and…"

"She wanted you to lead after her," Raven said, "so no more talk about quitting. What'll you do about the schools?" Tin sighed heavily but remained rigid in his chair.

"One must close so the others live. At least for another few years, based on Derryo's projections. They're rarely off the mark on these things. But the question I had for you was regarding one-on-one mentorship. The 'old way'. You've got the most experience of it." Tin paused and looked at Raven askance.

"Where is your apprentice? Resting?" Raven waved her hand at him like he was a great big gnat.

"Oh, Tin, my apprentice isn't being kept up by anything. Sleeping like a baby at the Lodge, I insisted on it. We leave first thing in the morning, the two of us." She narrowed her eyes at him when his face took on a sad, disappointed caste.

"In and out in the span of a night, hmm? Like some kid tagging a cop-car? You should at least wash your clothes before you head out, Raven." The Huntress' face reminded him vaguely of the professors he'd ride with backtalk at Starlight. What should have been a lifetime ago. There was a silence for a while before Tin made a gamble and said what he'd been holding back.

"You should visit Qrow." Raven's face turned blank from surprise. "Y'know, he wouldn't say it, but it hurts him when you pretend he doesn't exist." Raven leaped from her chair without a word and marched for the front door.

"Raven?" he called after her. No answer. "Lets not… Can we….? Stop acting like a damn teenager, you fool!" He rose from his chair and felt his crutch get tangled in his legs. A second later he was sprawled across the floor, cheek pressing into the cool tiles of the kitchen floor, no Aura catching him this time.

She darted over to where he lay. He snarled at her as she reached for his shoulders, face contorted in fury.

"Goddamnit, don't help me!" She backed up and watched him struggle to his feet, disheveled but unharmed. He set one hand on the table and slid the other into a crutch.

"He's your family, Raven," Tin went on, "and considering nobody knows where on Remnant your daughter-"

"Don't!" Raven roared.

Tin's mouth twisted back and forth, annoyed one moment and concerned the next. It was beginning to burn her up, seeing the worry in his eyes.

"Alright," he said, "alright, Raven, fine. So the 'old way'. Some kids are going to be left floating in the wind by this, no two ways about it, and I'm trying to find a way to mitigate the impact. Maybe a few juniors spend their last year with senior Hunters and learn the tricks of the trade straight on."

"My apprentice is gifted, and a special case," Raven said, her voice was clipped and she made no move to settle into a seat, "and therefore a poor comparison."

"Right, fine," Tin nodded rapidly, trying to finish his thought, "but if we had to do it for a whole class, could it work?" Raven took a long minute to mull over the thought.

"Potentially, I think it could work for a junior class. But some of the students will have to repeat years at a new school." Tin grimaced at her answer.

"There'll be a hiccup in the graduation rates for a year, then." He rubbed his knee on the spot that hit the floor, cradling a shallow bruise.

"That's the toll we pay to cross this river. They'll have an extra year of training. Maybe look at it that way if it helps. Either way, just do it."

"Thank you," he finally said, "and now I'd ask you to keep this whole thing quiet as a dead man's laugh. I know I can trust you, but I'm being extra cautious. The rumor mill is already ahead of me. They might be grinding out word of a closing, but by the Elder Brother and the Younger Brother, I will not let this get far. I'll tell the Heads when I feel like the time is right, and not a moment before."

"They'll still start jockeying," Raven said.

"I'll travel the world and thump each of them on their heads if that happens, but until then, 'sinking ships loosen lips' or whatever that phrase was."

Raven glared. Tin simply stared at the picture of himself and the Brindle Siblings at the center of his wall, lost in thought.

"Anything else?"

"Qrow made a full year sober three weeks ago," Tin said, a smile touching his lips, "first full year clean since…well, you asked me not to bring her up…but since that particular parting when he fell off the wagon." Raven held back another urge to bolt.

"A year," she said, "that must have been hard." Raven's face softened a little.

"Gardening keeps him occupied I think," Tin replied, "and he's strong. Strong like his sister." Raven turned on her heel and walked to the door.

"Hang on now," Tin barked, hobbling after her.

"What, Tin?" She turned to find his right hand extended toward her. An old farewell gesture. She spotted his tattoo of Starlight's symbol, a bow about to lose a shooting star like an arrow, etched in his muscular forearm.

"Goodbye, Raven Branwen, and be safe until we meet again," he said. She hesitated a moment, then took hold of his forearm in a sturdy grip.

"Until we meet again, Tin Steadfast," she began, "and remember, don't let sentiment cloud your judgment. What must be done, must be done."

"I'll try. Even if it kills me, I'll try," he paused, then gave her a grin, "now, young lady, you best get back to class. And remember... Principal Steadfast's door is always open."

As she went out his door and slowly through the dark, desert valley of the Hunters Den, she glanced back at the little hut. The shack was surrounded by the shadowed mountain range, the sky slowly turning to navy blue, and the twinkling yellow glow of lightning bugs. His vacation hut was not so much a home as it was a roof and a bed tucked into a vast landscape he could lose himself inside.

She drew in the smell of the valley's wild sage wet with morning dew as she sighed heavily, then silently cursed herself. There was no good reason to have woke him at such an unreasonable hour. To her relief, she saw the light go out in his kitchen window and, a moment later, his bedroom.

Get some sleep, old man. Kids or grown-ups, we all need you a bit longer.

She turned towards the lodge, a mighty silhouette of a complex at the far end of the valley, and began the march toward her own bed.


	2. H

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hessian Crane executes a plan sneak out of his family estate and begin a new life training as a Huntsman.

Hessian considered the storm as much a boon to his escape as a liability. Thunder muffled his footsteps one moment, but lightning revealed him the next. He would freeze every time the gilded corridors lit up, certain his parents would be beside him this time. Instead, it was another portrait of an ancestor from his family lineage, who glared at him with stoic fury. Their eyes, like his, were all the same shades of storm gray. A trait that had passed down his line since their family's house first appeared in history.

He descended the manor's grand stairway one step at a time, holding his breath as he went. Each mahogany step whined in his head louder than the thunder outside. He became certain all ten generations of Cranes could hear him from their graves. Even as he stood safely on the grand rug in the foyer, he still only inhaled with shallow breaths.

He'd spent the last week secreting items into a large steamer trunk, which was waiting for him already at the train station if all was still going to plan. The last piece of the puzzle was supposed to be the simplest part: sneak out, and get on your train. It was simple in concept, at least.

The front door to Crane Manor loomed black and imposing above him, but beyond was the pounding rain and the road to Beacon Academy. 'It is with great pleasure,' the letter had intoned, 'that we invite you to hone your skills amongst peers of talent at the Hunters' Academy of Beacon.' Goosebumps tickled his skin at the thought of his progress. Soon he'd take the final step: boarding an express train to Vale...

As his nerves finally gave way to confidence, he realized he had a rare opportunity. The young man took a detour into his father's study and groped along the furniture until he found the liquor cabinet. His father never touched it, often proposing to move it into the kitchen for practicality sake. He never would. Military colleagues and Vale's elite couldn't do meetings without a drink in hand, so his father suffered its presence for appearances. Hessian, now filled with rebellious pride, clutched the nearest bottle's neck and heard the contents burble softly inside the green glass.

He rolled his prize side to side in his palms and watched the amber liquid slide around inside. He read the label and wandered back into the foyer mouthing the words: Applegate Whiskey. They'd let him keep it on the train, surely. Hopefully. The bottle nearly fell from his grasp when a figure emerged from the shadows and blinded him with a flashlight.

Months of careful planning began to slip between his fingers. His heart turned to lead and dropped into his stomach. He'd been so careful, spent sleepless nights packing and working out contingencies. His parents had eaten up his lies about visiting friends in Vale; a ploy to take the Beacon Entrance Exam.

"I can explain," he squeaked out. Quickly, he searched his imagination for a good reason to be wearing his finest get-up in the dead of night.

Before he spoke again, Hessian noticed a mechanical foot softly whirring between the thunderclaps, and the slight left lean of the shadowy figure. It was only Corvo. The middle-aged Faunus had been waiting for him behind a suit of armor, as still and tranquil as another piece of the foyer. He was dressed in a pair of dark slacks that reached down to his avian feet, one scaley black and the other carefully manufactured, with a matching vest buttoned-up over a neat white shirt. Grey had stolen into his impeccable black hair and age accented the thin width of his long arms.

"Hessian Crane," it was more an accusation than a greeting. Corvo snatched the Applegate Whiskey from his hands. "I didn't teach you to be a thief!" the Vert accent made the word "thief" into a hiss.

The Crane family's butler did not stand on ceremony. He'd known Hessian since the young man was a toddler with scabby knees. Corvo found a way to tower over him even after he'd hit a growth spurt at sixteen. When his yellow eyes fixed into a stern gaze, they made Hesh feel five years old again.

Corvo walked the stolen bottle to the liquor cabinet, ever the dutiful butler. Hesh gazed at the floor, red burning in his cheeks until he saw the stick-thin bird feet step back into view.  
Corvo presented another bottle, this one smaller and a deeper shade of green. The words "Old Man's Orchard" were on the front.

"I've never liked cider, but it would have been rude to refuse your mother's gift." Hessian accepted the bottle with a puzzled grin, "You might say I'm simply re-gifting, provided you drink responsibly, young master." Corvo permitted himself a small smile, but his brows came together as he chastised his young charge.

"I know this is all rather dramatic, Master Hessian, but remember why you're going to all this trouble." The hall was filled with the machine gun rattle of rain and the artillery booms of thunder. Hesh cleared his throat softly and nodded.

"Independence, not defiance. I remember. Do you think my mother and father suspect?" The words sounded strange in place of mom and dad, but something about this whole secret meeting demanded more mature bearings.

"Suspect that you're running off in the night? No, I imagine not. You left a note as I asked, yes?" Hessian nodded. That note had been harder to write than he thought. He'd settled for a few words about 'coming to a warrior's age' and 'being old enough to make his own choices.' He'd finished with a plea to let him stay at the school. He wondered now if that was too weak.

"Hesh. Just breathe a little." Corvo squeezed his ward's shoulder with his spindly fingers and Hesh exhaled. Gainsboro Crane had been against his son joining the Hunters since Hesh first broached the subject at dinner almost a year ago.

"I'm fine. Let's get going," Hesh said. Beacon Academy awaited him. The Hunters ranks were calling to him over the commands of his father and the thundering tempest. He stood to attention and mimicked the determined glare in all his ancestor's portraits. Corvo nearly chuckled as Hesh squared his shoulders, trying to stand taller. The boy would be shocked to know how much he resembled his father.

Corvo ushered Hesh through the trophy room, where dozens of creatures were mounted. From Vacuon Apes to Mistralese Stags, the Crane family had accumulated a number of creatures over the centuries. Hesh's eyes lingered on a small box over the mantle where a pair of medals rested on velvet.

The emerald V on a ribbon was for outstanding service in the Vale's military. The pin of Swords was only awarded to a victor of many battles. General Gainsboro Crane did not talk often about the War of Menagerie - the Faunus Rights Revolution - in front of his wife or son, but as a child, Hesh heard him whisper with Corvo of their shared history during that bloody conflict. Even still, his father's service was deeply mired in secrecy.

"Hesh?" the teen jolted as Corvo shook him from his thoughts. He pressed an umbrella into Hessian's hands.

They went for the exit through the kitchen, Corvo's white-tiled domain around every meal. The smell of sauteed peppers was still fresh in the air from dinner, and it made Hesh remember his empty stomach. He'd barely eaten a bite, spending all of dinner staring at anything but his father. Hesh's stomach growled loudly, which drew an arched brow from Corvo.

"I'm fine. I'll eat on the train." He blushed. Corvo plucked an apple from an ornate fruit bowl left by the backdoor. He slipped it into Hesh's pocket even as the young man protested.

"This might be the last of the big summer storms. You can hear the waves roiling," said Corvo. He began to drape a gray overcoat on Hesh's shoulders. The teen shrugged away and insisted on dressing himself. Corvo obeyed quietly and presented him with a knitted cap before throwing open the door.

Thunder roared into the kitchen, making Hesh's heart skip a beat. He struggled to open his umbrella against the wind. True to Corvo's words, Hesh heard waves battering the cliffs far below them. It was a hard walk across the sprawling grounds of the Crane Estate.

They arrived at the barn, which smelled of hay and manure but was dry at least, excluding the drip-drop of a leak near the back. Corvo's avian feet were unfit for working the gas pedals of a car and Hessian couldn't drive, so the family's horses would take them both to the station. Gunpowder nickered in his stall and scraped his hoof at Hesh's familiar scent. Corvo had already saddled his black mare, Seine, and she stood cocking her ears at the thunderclaps and rain. Armistice, his father's bay, snorted and tossed his head as if disapproving of the whole thing.

"Hey boy," Hesh chided his horse as it nosed for the apple in his pocket before fetching some green pellets from his saddlebags. He pulled the saddle strap across Gunpowder's round, white belly and tightened the buckle. After a moment of thought, he stepped to Armistice's stall and fed the bay a few as well, stroking its long ears.

"Wish me luck," he whispered to his father's horse. Then he turned to Corvo, who was stroking Seine's nose.

"Corvo, did my trunk make it to the station?" the Faunus was lost in thought. He was imagining the morning to come. How Gainsboro and Isabella would bombard him with questions.

"Just before dinner, Hesh" Corvo answered after clearing his throat. Guilt had clung to his shoulders all day like his wet overcoat. The boy entrusted to him for over a decade was leaving, and Gainsboro would be furious when he heard. Worse than furious, he'd be hurt, the General as sensitive as his son. Corvo was betraying his best friend, no doubt about that. But was it such a sin to betray your best friend to help his only child? He put on a false smile when Hesh asked him a question.

"I said 'Did I get the packing right?'" Hesh fed Gunpowder the bridle and wiped the drool off his hand. His chest swelled at the thought of packing by himself, like a man. If he'd be fighting Grimm soon, packing would be of no object. Corvo informed him he'd forgotten his dress shoes, toothbrush, and extra underwear.

"I also took the liberty of removing the sheets and towels you packed. The school will provide this, you can be sure." Hesh hid behind Gunpowder's neck and brushed the horse down, pouting in silence. He climbed onto the saddle and Corvo threw open the doors. All three of the horses neighed at the sudden rush of wind and water, but Hesh and Corvo reined in their mounts.  
Corvo spurred Seine with a touch of talon and Hesh kicked Gunpowder. Eight hooves scattered mud and water across the long driveway of the Crane Estate. Hesh squinted against the rain and pulled the cap down over his ears. Even when they cleared the gate, he imagined looking over his shoulder to see his father on Armistice, reaching out to snatch him off his horse.

They arrived at Taupe Station in half an hour. The platform was sparsely crowded, but a young upper-class boy with a Faunus servant at his heels raised no suspicions.

Corvo collected the steamer trunk and rolled it out on a dolly. He waited on a bench while Hesh paced back and forth. The station bustled around them and an hour passed by until midnight brought a warning whistle from an approaching train. Hesh's 12:15 express train to Vale. Hesh grew more uneasy as the moment of truth approached, heralded by the train's wheels clacking against age-old tracks as it drew closer. He turned to Corvo.

"What if he decides to just come and get me? What do I do?" The Faunus rested his hand on Hesh's shoulder and shook his head.

"The General will depart for Fort Durga first thing in the morning, Hesh. That much you can have great faith in. Your father will be furious, beyond furious, but he has a duty to perform and will see it through. He has a strong sense of responsibility." Hesh bowed his head, feeling guilt and anger pulling him in two different directions.

"I don't want to upset dad, but he.. just doesn't understand," Hesh mumbled, "I-I have to do this."  
"Like him," Corvo said, patting Hesh on the shoulder, "you both do what you must."

"It will be difficult for you, Corvo. I don't know how you'll all live together after this." Corvo laughed a little at that and gave Hesh a wry smile.

"I imagine it will be easier than you think, Hessian. I fully expect to lose my position." Hesh's head shot up. Horror ran down his spine as words failed him.

"No," he whispered, then launched into a panic. "Corvo we can't do this! I can't cost you your job and...and your home! What was I thinking getting you involved in this? I can't make you ruin your life just to help me!"

"Hessian," Corvo snapped, grabbing his ward by the shoulders, "I chose to help you. You never could have compelled me otherwise. I've thought long about which side in this feud I was going to take… for as long as you've been having it. I survived three years in a camp at Sycorax and fought by your father's side until I was free again. I will survive sleeping on someone's couch for a few months. And I do not need you worrying about me."

"I only...I'm sorry, Corvo," Hesh said, feeling foolish.

"I accept your apology," he said, "but always remember who taught you how to hold a sword correctly. It would be a waste if you simply went home and laid around in bed forever, glaring at the ceiling. Unless you've reconsidered the military?"

"No," Hesh said, his eyes hard when he looked up, "I'm not going back to that. Ever. I'm going to be a Hunter."

"Well then, if you really are set on leaving," Corvo smiled, "then I have one final gift before you go."

There was no one left on the platform but the duo and a night watchman. Corvo rose and opened Hesh's steamer trunk. The young man's eyes grew wide as Corvo withdrew a sword.

The saber was sheathed in a scabbard the color of blood and the dim, golden hilt glinted in the station lights. Hesh's slack jaw formed no words. Corvo cleared his throat a little too loudly as he handed Hesh his most prized possession.

"As Le Danseur wrote 'Each duel is a conversation between warriors, where each combatant endeavors to have the Final Word'." The corners of his mouth tugged upwards at the sight of Hesh holding the sword. "You need a blade worthy of a Hunter. They'll tell no tales about just any weapon. They need a named sword." Hesh began to make a feeble protest, but Corvo simply shook his head.

"It'd gather dust in my closet otherwise. It's a finer weapon than any sword in the manor's armory, and you need it." Hesh blinked at his gift. A chill ran through his veins as he imagined Corvo the next morning, missing the sword he'd hung over his fireplace for years, packing his things and leaving with no one willing to wish him goodbye. Everything to do with his plan to escape had seemed simple before, but momentum had gathered beneath him until, somewhere along the way, he'd lost the choice to turn back.

"I'll earn this," Hesh finally said, "I swear, I'll earn this."

"Of that, Young Master, I have great faith." Hesh, with all the care he could, fixed the blade to his belt and felt a rush of excitement at the weight. Corvo hid his watery eyes by looking down at his watch.

The train rolled into the station and rumbled to a stop. Rainwater cascaded down the engine and the doors slid open, letting a dozen sleepy passengers depart. Corvo gently instructed a pair of attendants to handle the great steamer trunk. Hesh stared at the curtained windows of the passenger car before him.

He laid his left palm atop the hilt of the Final Word and drew in the smell of heavy rain with a deep breath. He mounted the iron steps and turned in the doorway to see Corvo smiling. He wanted to leap off the train and embrace his mentor one last time.

Hesh feared that Corvo might reject it for propriety. He feared Corvo might think him too emotional and uncertain to go through with this after all. Hunters didn't get weepy-eyed when they left home, certainly. Corvo, seeing Hessian frozen with indecision, waved and called out to him.

"Hunt well, Hessian Crane," Corvo said. Hesh exhaled, then offered an instinctual salute.

"Th-Thank you, Corvo. For everything." The train whistled a shrill warning and he hurried to find his seat. The train began its journey before he found his spot, but he still threw the heavy curtains aside in the hopes he might wave to Corvo one last time. The red cloth parted to show him nothing but the swiftly passing countryside and the storm still raging above.


	3. A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While awaiting her ride out of High Crimson forest, Azeban Quinn spends her final moments with her family caught in the crossfire of an ongoing feud.

Disclaimer: HARQ is a fanwork of the Rooster Teeth Animated Production RWBY. All characters from the original cast of RWBY are owned by Rooster Teeth.

Special thanks to eliort on for their artwork contributions. Thanks to Hector for editing.

...

Azeban watched the Beowolf welp with morbid interest, allowing herself a single, distracted thought.

There's nothing cute about it.

The Grimm was a newborn by ordinary metrics, about as tall as a prepubescent child, but looked vulnerable in no other ways. Its back and shoulders were armored by thick portions of bone, still growing but already pointed and wicked-looking like an exotic spider. It's clawed hands and feet were sturdy on the uneven floor of the High Crimson Forest. Its exposed muscles were prominently coiled along its small frame. The eyes, circles of sickly orange neon, roamed carefully along the ground and its pointed snout worked rapidly at some scent.

Azeban had approached from downwind and crouched into the bushes in a runner's stance, raccoon tail swaying to stay balanced as she awaited an opening. Her innate curiosity begged to know how the Grimm behaved when they weren't charging at humans, but she kept her mind focused on searching for the best place to make her first strike. Her options were base, middle, or top near the neck.

The Grimm turned its back to her and bent itself down to better catch a whiff of something. For an instant, its spine stood out against the black-furred hump of its back. Azeban's heartbeat quickened and she made a split second decision.

The huckleberry bushes that acted as her hunting blind rattled as she burst forth, betraying her advance. The Grimm's triangular ears pointed up before it turned to look at her.

A jab between its middle vertebrae was her safest bet. She darted to the Beowolf's side and brought her Dawnlander to bear on the startled creature. Her machete was a husky piece of gray steel closer to a butcher's cleaver than a sword, but the javelin point on its pommel would do the work this time. It passed through skin and bone with disturbing ease as she brought it down, like slicing open a sandbag. At once the Grimm's legs gave out and it slumped forward on the forest floor.

With no pause or whimper of pain, the Grimm reached out its still working hands and began to claw at the dirt. Azeban carefully disentangling herself from it at the last second as it started to snarl and snap at the air, twisting its head in an attempt to face her. There was too much movement to hit the brain in a clean strike, so she opted to give Dawnlander some extra reach.

Her weapon's pommel and grip snapped away from each other into the polearm for a glaive. She rose it up and gave two consecutive cries of 'hah', one for each chop at its neck, like some stunted laugh. The spine severed fully but its head remained attached by charcoal black meat. The Beowolf's brain quickly realized it was connected to nothing, letting its claws curl inward around clumps of soil and fallen pine needles as it died. The creature leaked black, water-thin blood from its wounds in a modest trickle. The girl shortened and clipped her weapon to her belt, then adjusted her pants as the metal weight dragged at her left hip.

Azeban glanced down at her self and blew a little raspberry at the dark stains on her shirt and pants. For this messy encounter, she'd spend the whole trip to Vale looking like she'd been playing in the dirt. Against all good sense, she raised her right hand and curiously sniffed it.

"Ew," she whispered, wrinkling her nose, "gross." The stink of mildew clung to her where she'd been splashed with blood and she kicked at the body contemptuously. She made an overdramatic gag when the steel-toed edge of her shoe sank into its side and came away covered in a thick clump of melting matter and wilting fur.

"Double gross!" she shouted.

"Azeban," a concerned voice called from the corridor of redwoods behind her. The teenager winced and prepared for what was certain to be a lecture.

"I'm over here," she called back, "I killed a beowolf."

Soft footsteps on thick grass quickened. A woman emerged from around a mighty redwood trunk, with a Condottieri M3 shotgun cradled in her arms. A long red shawl had been thrown over her right shoulder, pinned there by a sling that held up the semi-automatic.

"Oh, mom," she said, rolling her eyes, "you had to bring shotty out? Seriously?" Her mother frowned and unloaded several shells from the gun across her torso, choosing not to humor her daughter's aside. After pocketing the ammunition and adjusting the empty shotgun so it fell across her back, she folded her arms and spoke.

"You left your Vellum behind at the camp." The accusation drew a frustrated shrug from her daughter.

"It's bulky and it crackles like a campfire, mom, the Grimm would've heard me coming!" It was the wrong thing to say and a terrible way to say it. Her mother's nostrils flared as she shouted.

"Don't raise your voice at me, Azeban Quinn, and don't give me that line the Huntress fed you as an excuse! You'll keep your Vellum when you're away from camp and that is final." She looked the girl over and her frown deepened.

"And where is your shawl? Tell me you lost it."

"Oh my god, mom, no! I took it off, it could've gotten in the way," Azeban marched back through the bushes she'd hidden in and circled a young redwood and found her shawl, red as her mother's, hanging like a pennon from a low branch.

"Didn't I say not to take that tone with me?" Her mother called from the clearing.

"No," Azeban whispered, "you said not to raise my voice."

"Excuse me, what was that?" There was an edge in her voice that Azeban felt tempted to test. She gritted her teeth together and tugged the garment off the branch.

"Nothing, I said I have it right-" a quiet rip stopped her mid-sentence and she gasped in horror.

The abused huckleberry bushes suffered further as Sibosek Quinn shoved them aside while approaching her daughter's side. Concern creased her brow but slowly smoothed out when she saw no danger.

"Oh no, no, no, no," Azeban's voice was small and anxious as she ran the shawl over her fingers. After a circuit of searching, her fingers poked through a tear some three inches long. She stared miserably at one of the playful tassels along the hem. The tear had left it hanging lower than its siblings.

"Shit," she said and then winced, "I mean 'shoot'." Sibosek gave a quiet chuckle.

"It's alright girl, your little brothers aren't around. May I?" She extended a hand patiently as Azeban searched for more damage.

"It must've gotten caught on something," Azeban said, "I'm such an idiot." She handed it to her mother like she was caught stealing.

"Hey, now," Sibosek said, smiling, "don't talk about my daughter that way." Azeban smiled.

"Oh, hardy-har-har, mom," her eyes darted along the shawl's broken edge as Sibosek examined it, "can you fix it?"

"A little thread will fix this right away, but we have so little time," Sibosek said. She gave Azeban a brief, tired glance. "In fact, I came searching for you for just that reason, Azeban. We've got a little less than seventy minutes before Mochila arrives, and I won't make her wait on account of our dawdling."

"It can't be noon yet," Azeban searched the canopy for traces of the sun. Her mother was best at telling time without a watch, but she determined she was approximately right.

"It's not," Sibosek said, folding up her shawl with a mother's care, "but she'll be here by 10:50." Azeban's eyes narrowed, her black-tipped ears lowering slightly in suspicion.

"Since when?" Sibosek's frown returned.

"Since your father called us over the Vellum and told us they were making better time than expected." In the silence that followed, a trio of baby robins began chattering for breakfast. Sibosek did not wait for her daughter to respond before turning to leave the thick forest. Azeban, pouting unseen, followed her mother.

Mighty High Crimson Forest spanned some two-million acres on the southwestern edge of Lake Matsu and had been a scarcely inhabited by the people of the continent Anima. It was one of those places declared 'unclaimable territory' by the powers-that-be, though it sat less than a day's flight from the capital of Mistral. At the northernmost edge of the forest, where it gave way to the Land Strait between Lake Matsu and the Slender Sea, three generations of the Quinn family had made camp, along with every nomadic family in the High Crimson Federation.

A triangle of bedrolls by an extinguished campfire had provided the Quinn women with a place to rest and await Azeban's departure. Sibosek began to thread a bit of spare red twin through the weave of the shawl, sealing the tear with the slow-paced work of the expert. Azeban had begun to clear and pack their equipment while she explained her absence earlier.

"Grandma heard at least four of them while she was on watch," Azeban said. She bent to the ground and rolled up her mother's bedroll. "So she woke me up just before dawn to help her pick them off. She said we had to make sure nothing surprised us when Mochila landed out here."

'Out here' referred to the clearing nearby, where long blades of grass waved at the far off horizon of Lake Matsu.

"She could've told me," Sibosek said, her sewing needle dipping in and out of the red shawl, "Furthermore, you could have told me. I wouldn't have forbidden you from doing your duty, Azeban."

"I know," Azeban said. She finished rolling up the last of the bedrolls and carried them back behind the treeline. She loaded them onto a pair four-wheeled Foresters, all-terrain military scouting bikes, that her mother and grandmother would use to halve the trip back to the Quinn Caravan, where Glooskap and her younger brothers waited. Her own vehicle had been carefully stowed beneath a rainproof tarp and several camo-blankets.

She tied them on and thought bitterly about her damaged shawl. Lost in thought though she was, she began to note the silence of the forest. No birds chirped and nothing in the underbrush moved. She assumed, at first, that her own careless movements had startled the animals when a voice whispered behind her.

"What are you doing back here?" Azeban made a fist and swung behind her in reflex, but her wrist was snatched in an iron grip before she could connect.

"You scared me," she snarled, her face flushing in embarrassment. The old woman who held her was slender as a knife and looked nearly exactly like her mother save several deep wrinkles and smoky gray hair.

"And if I were a Grimm I'd do much worse," her grandmother released her wrist but kept her hard, hazel eyes locked with Azeban's.

"Mom said Mochila's coming early," Azeban said, " and we've got to pack up. Are we safe?"

"Never." Azeban was careful to never roll her eyes at Grandma Sequoia, but she chanced an aggravated huff. She steered the subject to something -the only thing- with which Sequoia concerned herself. Hunting.

"How many were there? Any more than four?" Sequoia's mouth quirked as she thought, a sour look deepened into her wrinkled face.

"Is that all you have to ask me? You abandon your hunt before its complete and all you can think to ask is 'how many'? As if we were shopping for apples?" Azeban crossed her arms.

"Mom wanted me to come back, Grandma." Sequoia shouldered past her and set a knotted bandana on the seat of her Forester. She turned on her heel and walked through the treeline.

Azeban stood, simmering with anger, and waited until she felt that her grandmother was safely out of range. She flipped her off.

Azeban untied the bandana she'd been left. If her grandmother was giving her the silent treatment on her last day seeing her for months, that was her problem.

"Who cares," she said to herself, whispering unevenly. "I don't."

Inside the bandana was a pile of shattered beetles. Azeban almost dumped them out in disgust before noting the wires spilling from their plastic shells. The electronics were little disguised cameras. It was Mistral made, judging from the text on the wires, and a line of numbers inside the shell gave it away as Government Issued. Mistral's goons were in the forest again, spying on them. A bit of old poetry made the Mistralese anthem at some point, popped into her head.

" 'Freedom lives here in this place/in every heart and every face,'" she said, her ears twitching at the morning breeze, "well, almost every face though, right Mistral?" The forest sounds returned as she tied up the little bandana and threw a camo-blanket over the Foresters.

Her mom and grandma were arguing when she returned, which was typical. Their argument was centered on her, which was also typical.

"So when she's tracking Manticores on a moonless night, she should bring along a bit of deadweight that can make noise? I know you care about her, Sibosek-"

"At least one of us has to, mother." Azeban quietly set about collecting all bits of trash and detritus around the perimeter of their camp.

"Oh, don't be so stupid," Sequoia hissed. She had knelt by the fire to clean the curved blade of her Dawnlander. She didn't look up from her work as she continued speaking.

"This mollycoddling must stop, and you must learn to stay out of her way," the old Huntress sniffed and spat.

"I am her mother," Sibosek said, "and I won't be held back or second-guessed by a poor excuse for one." Sequoia cut her eyes at her daughter and laughed. Azeban silently prayed for the argument to fizzle out with that.

"Ah, the ceasefire ends and the war starts anew. If you spent half the time instilling your children with some sense of duty as you do conducting this self-righteous debate about motherhood with me, perhaps it wouldn't be Azeban I'm training to hunt, with or without her Vellum."

"Careful, old woman," Sibosek growled.

"Mom," Azeban said, letting a whine enter her voice, "could you just let her stew. She's just mad because the humans are trying to spy on us again." She tossed her mother the bandana and watched Sibosek snatch it from the air and investigate.

"Oh, those bastards don't give up, do they? How hidden were these?"

"Enough not to be suspicious," Sequoia said, "but we shouldn't risk taking them anyway. GPS chips aren't my expertise, so I can't identify them." Azeban grinned and caught her grandmother's eye.

"No one can now that you've smashed them, Grandma." She giggled when, against all odds, the Huntress made a sly smirk.

"So your morning prey," Sibosek said, emptying the bandana into the ashes of the campfire, "must've been seeking out the traces of the Mistralese twits that planted these bugs." Sibosek chewed her lip and scanned the field and lake around them.

"See any Hoplites, mom?" Azeban said with a twinkle in her eye.

"Don't even joke like that, silly, or you'll jinx those butchers onto us. Glooskap has been saying some outspoken bunch has been stirring up folks over the radio in Mistral about 'degenerates in the Kingdom'. If the worst should happen, one of us might get caught out alone with a lot of angry humans looking for someone to punish."

"We're not even in their Kingdom, why should they care about us? We don't rob or steal or hurt anybody. I know they don't like us, but what reason should they have to come here and do anything?" At this Sequoia face became serious and she moved over to kneel before her granddaughter.

Azeban was too surprised to speak as her grandma cupped her face and looked her in the eyes. They were stern but not harsh. The concern in them was frightening to behold.

"We're Faunus who live free, Azeban. That is more than enough reason for them. Remember that when you leave for Vale." Azeban's eyes darted to her mother and she was shocked to see Sibosek nodding, albeit with a great deal of disappointment, at the old Huntress' words.

"But isn't Vale better? Dad, mom, and Miko, they all said it was different there." At the mention of her eldest grandson's name, Sequoia' s whole face became a bitter frown once again. She let Azeban go and towered over her as she stood.

"Some things are the same everywhere," she said, "Just keep your head down while you're there and don't attract attention. You only need to be there for a year." Azeban's ears stood up in shock.

"Wait! We didn't decide it was just a year, Grandma, you promised I could do at least two!"

"Azeban," her mother rested a hand on her back, "we'll discuss it when you come back for winter break, but for now-"

"No!" Azeban broke away and turned to face them both at once. Her ears were pounding and hot as torches.

"Beacon is useful as a final test of your abilities but very little else. The staff will try to scare you off by frontloading you with their worst physical challenges. A bid to weed out the slackers." Sequoia's voice turned low and dangerous. "You'll rise to their challenge, spend every spare minute training, and come home better than you left. After that, there will be nothing they can teach you that I can't." Azeban bared her teeth took a step forward.

"This is such shit and you know it!" Sequoia's face remained serene and, to Azeban's indignation, she continued as if there had been no outburst.

"Try not let whatever team they saddle you with distract you. I expect much of you when you come back in the summer." Sibosek stepped between them and faced her mother.

"Would you please just let her leave without heaping this on her?" Sequoia's voice rose at last and she shouted in her daughter's face.

"So she can turn her back on us like your worthless firstborn?" Sibosek displayed all the stoic patience that her mother had up to that point.

"Just let her leave without any more of our crap. Please, mother," she said, "I just want my girl to be happy."

"You should keep your promises," Azeban said, glaring at her grandmother. Sibosek glanced over her shoulder.

"Azeban," she pleaded, "please, no more of this! Please? For me?" Azeban grunted and stalked off to the clearing's tiny beach. She ground her teeth and kicked at some loose rocks with her boot, trying not to let loose of the shriek of frustration.

"Don't trust anyone, don't let people drag you down, be a good girl, do what I say," she said to herself. She pent down grabbed up a handful of sand and hurled it out at Lake Matsu.

The wind off the lake kicked up and smacked her in the face with it in some final cosmic prank. She sputtered angrily and chained a few swears together. Someone walked down onto the shore and stood beside her.

"Hey," her mother said, "don't push it too much, Azeban Quinn. You're too pretty for words that ugly." Azeban scowled and resolved not to say anything.

"Silly girl," Sibosek said softly, "look at this now. There's sand in your hair." Her mother produced an old comb from her belt and started to gently run it through Azeban's black hair. Azeban found herself calming a little from the soothing, familiar sensation, as embarrassing as that was.

"She makes me so angry sometimes," Azeban said, "and what she said about Miko wasn't cool. She should apologize." Sibosek finished brushing her hair and planted a kiss on her crown.

"I know, I know. It makes me angry too. Your grandmother…well…she can be very bitter, Azeban. But I want you to know she loves you." Azeban scoffed and stepped out of her mother's arms.

"She does," Sibosek insisted, "she loves Miko too. She's never been any good at showing it. Not the way most people do."

"Sure," Azeban said, shrugging. Another breeze rolled off Lake Matsu and Azeban shivered at the chill it brought. A moment later warmth cocooned her. Her mended shawl hung on her shoulders.

"When I was your age, Azeban, I felt that the whole world was unfair to me and me alone. But never has it seemed less fair than it does right this moment. I wish it was all different. I wish the Faunus and humans lived in peace. I wish the Kingdoms were open to all and the Grimm would vanish tomorrow from the world. I wish for these things because I wish you and your brothers could live exactly as you please. I would give anything up to make these things happen, Azeban. For you."

"Thanks, mom," Azeban said. She looked over her shawl and smiled. It looked good as new.

"You are a strong girl, and far sooner than I want, you will be a strong woman. Try to be happy while you're gone. And safe. I…I'm sorry I gave you so much trouble earlier," Azeban was shocked to hear her mother's voice break and a soft sob escape the hand she put over her mouth.

"Mom? Aw, mom. Please don't. It's my fault for acting dumb. I'm sorry! Mom, please don't cry!" She was further confounded when her mother's whimpers turned to gales of laughter.

"Sorry for being stubborn? A Quinn woman? Oh, that's rich, Azeban." Her daughter searched for something to say but came up with only a slightly miffed smile.

"I just want you to know," Sibosek rubbed at her eye and coughed to clear her throat, "that your mother loves you very much. And will think about you every day after you're gone. That's all. And she's proud of you for everything you're doing." Sibosek held out her arms hopefully. Azeban hugged her tight and tried to memorize every detail of her mother's embrace. What stood out, as always, was the ever-present smell of the redwood pines of High Crimson. The smell of home.

"I can do more than just a year, right?" Azeban tried to sneak the comment into the moment with a whisper.

"Shhhh. Not now, silly. That's for another day. And something you need to think about yourself. Either way, I'll see you again soon enough. In the meantime, make sure you try to get a word through to us when you can. We'll be moving south as the weather gets colder."

"Ok," Azeban said into her mother's shoulder.

"Have a safe trip." Azeban looked up.

"You talk like I'm leaving now." Sibosek smiled sadly and gestured at the lake. A lone airship was making its way toward them. Azeban saw it and felt a pit open in her stomach. She turned and hugged her mom even tighter.

She looked back at the growing airship as it descended toward them, before taking in the setting around them. Their family had named this clearing Orion's Beach ages ago, since the day they found it while wandering under the eaves of High Crimson. Miko, Azeban's older brother, had found an old arrowhead in the sand while they stopped for lunch near the shore.

Her father Glooskap Quinn, ever open to mischief, had insisted then and forevermore that it was, in fact, an arrowhead from the quiver of the mythic First Hunter. He had crafted a tale of Orion, a pelt-clad inhabitant of the mysterious floating isles, diving into the center of Lake Matsu and swimming to that very beach before setting off to fight Scorpio across the seas. Azeban had believed the story almost all sixteen years of her life.  
'Orion's Beach' thus became a classic meeting point for the Quinn family and those rare visitors from across the kingdoms.

They would congregate there, her father fishing in the low tide and Miko waving a metal detector around everything in sight like it was his magic wand. The wind had played many tricks on them, blowing in strong from the lake and tossing everything not buckled down. They would wait there for shipments of surplus goods to arrive, or for small scale parties with her father's side of the family. It had been a window into another world, where strange new things from impossibly far away appeared on her doorstep. She realized for the first time that she was about to see High Crimson from the opposite side. Her entire world would be framed inside her window seat.

"I will write," she said, tears welling in the corners of her eyes, "I promise! Every single week!" A pair of old army duffle bags, Azeban's luggage, thumped to the sand. Azeban looked over and saw her grandmother standing above them on a small hill of grass.

"I'll meet you at the bikes, Sibosek," she said. To Azeban she gave a stone-faced nod, waited for her to reciprocate, and then left without another word. Azeban watched as Sequoia left her the same way she did every night after a hunt. Ears perked, footsteps light, eyes focused on something else.

"Goodbye, grandma," Azeban said after a moment. Sequoia was certainly too far away to hear.

...

Editor Note:

All forms of feedback are welcome, so please leave a review if you like. This story will upload new chapters on a weekly basis, so check back next Sunday for an update. Thank you for reading!


	4. R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a miserable day at his new job, Rhodizite Henry reminisces on his past in search of a new way forward.

Disclaimer: HARQ is a fanwork of the Rooster Teeth Animated Production RWBY. All characters from the original cast of RWBY are owned by Rooster Teeth.

Thanks to Hector for editing.

...

Rhodizite Henry walked the way home from his new job that cut through the empty main street of Ainnis-Cloch, population eight thousand, four hundred and six. A bit of that morning's leftover chill still clung to the air as the clocktower declared the arrival of three in the afternoon. His 'nice' clothes did nothing to keep out the arctic winds. He began to walk the incline that leads to his house and winced at the way his black derbies squeezed the sides of his feet. They were too small, like the rest of his outfit.

The whole set had been purchased four years ago for his father's funeral and was still the only outfit made of fine fabric in his wardrobe. He'd gone through several growth spurts since then, and now they stretched so thin across his tall, herculean frame that the cuffs of his pants didn't reach down to his shoes, leaving a pair of sepia colored ankles peeking out above his thinnest pair of socks. Like his late father, his resting face looked as proud as a statue of a war hero, but it betrayed his true feelings this afternoon as he walked with heavy steps from his training course.

It would be humiliating going to his new job like this every day, but none of the members of his old shift had room to mock him. All of them were stuck in the same mess. The Schnee Dust Company had bought their town up, and the new pay for working in the mines wasn't a livable wage for anyone in town, so they all had a choice between office work at the new Schnee Headquarters down the road or no work at all. Annie and Andy Raggs had taken the two seats next to him, next to each other as always. The twins were a sight with their bright red hair and their matching freckles all wrapped up in delicate clothes they'd never willfully wear anywhere else.

Annie had tried to be positive. Shift Two was still together, and they could at least see each other's faces more this way. No more hiding behind the face masks on their Galea helmets.

Rhod had looked at all their faces. More than a few of them holding back a whole lot of misery as the new reality asserted itself. No more mine. No more Ainnis-Cloch Mining Concern. Their little town was now Schnee Site #12 in the Southern Mantle Highlands region.

Shift Two's long gone, Annie, he thought, we're gone-ter be Floor 3 or some such shite. Office drones taking recruitment calls and complaints. They'd finished dispute training today. Had a canned phone call of a woman angry that her husband hadn't received workers comp. It descended into sobbing and accusations of racial prejudice. The applicant was tested on their ability to stay calm and cordial while trying to redirect the caller.

"You get these sometimes," said Nick, their golf-shirt and khakis-clad instructor from Atlas, "it's all about funneling them through to somebody else. Trust me. A few months after the new workers start coming through, when the mine is really churning out product, we start getting hammered with payroll complaints. Comes with the territory." He'd shrugged, given a wink, and began describing the next canned call as a miner who couldn't read very well that was asking about the taxes on his pay-stub.

Rhod had gotten up at that, asked to use the bathroom, and walked straight out of the building.

He was halfway through the backyard, stepping carefully around his little sister's vegetable garden when he realized he was going into the house the wrong way.

It had been funny most days, before the mine closed, to catch himself heading for the back steps. His brain was still concerned about the front hallway rug being marred by his work boots and was guiding him to their normal spot.

He stared at his tall boots and carefully maintained hammer leaning on the wall by the back door stoop. It was eerie. This was how his father's equipment had looked days after he died. Discarded and abandoned.

He was ready to break down and start crying any minute. Taking a seat on the rough concrete steps, he spared no thoughts for the nice pants he was wearing. He had the sudden mad notion to get dressed in his mining gear and march down to the Lucky Break Mine, his father's mine, to scare off the workers.

'ave that be a call, Nick. Complaint office: Crazy bastart with a hammer come a-swingin' and a-yellin' fit to wake up the Elder Brother. Says we're all buncha ghouls diggin' up the grave of his da', that we're robbin' the folk of this town. What office do ye send that one too, Nick, you dangleberry?

The thought made him laugh, and the laughter held back his tears. The screen door into his home creaked as it was pushed open.

"Rhod?" his mother asked, surprised to see him home early.

" Hullo maw," he said, still staring at his boots and hammer, "did ah scare ye? Awfy sorry."

"Nae," Beryl Henry said, searching what parts of his face she could see, "but what's that on your back so early, bhobain? Ye feelin' poorly?"

"Aye," Rhod said, his voice cracking, "Ah feel hoora bad, maw." Beryl hurried down the steps and turned Rhod's face to her. She passed her eyes across his features and pressed her hand to his forehead.

"Ye feel a wee chilly, Rhod," she pursed her lips, "mebee since ye didn't wear a coat like I said. Och, ner mind it. The gaff, Rhod, get in the gaff." She lead him by the hand, as if he were six and sixteen days old, past the screen door threshold and into the kitchen. The air was still accented by the smell of bacon from that morning. Rhod sat in his spot at the far end of their humble table, his back to the garden window.

"Mayor Henry, is everything quite alright?" The man's voice dripped into the room before the man entered. Rhod's blood began to run and the chill in his bones vanished before a heatwave of rage.

"Young Mister Rhodizite," Tanner Stile said with a smile. Rhod snorted like a bull seeing a red cape. That practiced smile had haunted his life for the past four months. It must've been charming to someone, but to him, it was the look of a man who's made a whole lineup of jokes about you he's planning to tell someone.

The Schnee Company's procurement agent settled into the seat next to his. The seat that had been empty since Zircon Henry died of Dust Lung four years prior.

Bugger off, Rhod snarled inside his head, bugger off out of me da's chair ye man-shaped shite! Shift yer bony arse out of me da's house! Shift it out of me ma's town!

"Mister Stile," Rhod managed his politest growl, "howzitgoan?"

"We were talking about you, Beryl and I," he 'remembered' himself and grinned apologetically at Rhod's mother, who was focused filling a kettle at the sink, "excuse me, Mayor Henry and I were having a conversation about your prospects with the company."

"Prospec's?" Rhod tried not to look at the man's face, certain he wouldn't be able to hide his irritation.

"Well, we were discussing other matters, of course, but I happened to get a message from the Reception Center only a few moments ago." He produced a sleek Scroll, a cutting edge model for certain, and tapped on it.

"'Rhodizite Henry has disappeared from our training class,'" Tanner Stile read with the slightest hint of disapproval.

"Ah was poorly," Rhod lied, shame bubbling in his stomach.

"Well," Tanner Stile slid his Scroll back into his crisp black suit jacket, "it happens, of course. But, son, you really should tell your trainer and sign out."

Dinnae call me son, bastart.

"Awful sorry, Mister Stile," he mumbled.

"Oh, it's alright, the adjustment is hard and the stress of a new job is something even I remember from my younger days. But, son, you've got to always keep in mind your professional reputation. The Schnee Company can open every door in the world for you, Mr. Rhodizite, but you've got to put in a little more consistent effort."

"Ah dinnae mean ta upset anybody," Rhod folded his muscular arms around himself, feeling more foolish by the minute.

"We're not heartless, son, we can understand how this transition might be especially difficult for you. Just try and see things from our perspective, too." Tanner Stile reached over and patted one of Rhod's broad shoulders. Rhod bit the inside of his cheek.

As always, his mother came to his rescue.

"Ye take a cup o' tea, Mister Stile?" Beryl's voice was clipped and Rhod could sense his mother's fury, restrained solely by the great need their town had of this man.

"Oh, yes please, Mayor Henry," Tanner Stile said, with an infuriatingly bemused look, "it still amazes me that the tap is safe to drink from out this way. Considering the isolation and the closeness of your mining operations, most would give up the groundwater for toxic."

"We hold the regs of keepin clean water hoora important, Mister Stile, Ah've said such a'fore," she turned, her head held high and back rigid, to set the kettle on a burner, "Ah've nae doubt the Schnee Comp'nee can keep it safe ta drink as well."

"Yes, the regulations, of the Ainnis-Cloch Mining Concern were fastidious, to say the least," he winked at Rhod, "that is to say they were quite…" mother and son jumped in as one voice.

"Ah ken what 'fastidious' means." Tanner Stile grinned wide and ducked slightly, amused at the reaction.

"Forgive me, please," he begged impishly with his smile still wide, "I meant no offense. I'm used to dealing with less…erudite interlocutors." Rhod's chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. The shirt and dress coat began to feel like a straight-jacket. He rose and announced his plan to change his clothes.

"A'right, bhobain," Beryl's voice switched at once, a smile in her tone, "yer cuppa is goin' t'boil soon. Quick quick, a'fore it gets cold."

"Aye, maw," he said, pretending the flaxen-haired serpent wasn't behind him. Stile's voice carried through the house even as he went upstairs. He heard him below his room as he changed.

"Is there anything I can do to help, Mayor Henry? I hate to be a bother."

"Hop in front a bus," Rhod whispered as he rummaged through his closet, "ye'd be no bother after that, dangelberry."

"Nae," his mother's voice made him shut up on reflex, "Ah'm sunlight and clear skies, Mister Stile. Ye might like that seat by the window. Rhod doesn't mind."

"Oh, no, I've imposed too much as it is," there was a pause and a warm chuckle, "my, what a lovely figure of speech! Sunlight and clear skies. Did you think that up, Beryl…oh dear, I'm having a terrible day with this. Mayor Henry, I do ask your pardon. It's such a lovely name if I may say so."

"Bastart," Rhod hissed, quieter than a whisper, "ye bastart of a bastart!" He finished dressing in haste, a beaten gray thermal above some trusty jeans, his ankles finally cozy in some wool socks. He was about to rush downstairs and hurl Tanner Stile through the kitchen window when his eyes fell on a familiar, calming sight.

A battered mining helmet sat on his dresser. It's faded caution yellow standing out starkly against his room's unpainted walls.

Rhod, his father had said as he'd first placed it there when Rhod was seven years old, I've a new one, a fancy one. But this'un been good to me, and it's yours now. He'd demonstrated the little lamp on its front. For Rhod, who'd been scared of the dark back then, it was a high-powered weapon against the nightmares his room hid at night.

He picked it up with a fond smile and felt it fit nicely onto his head. Never again would it slip down over his eyes. He reached up and flicked a tiny switch. A great circle of light filled the wall above his bed, casting long shadows from a dozen crowded nick-nacks.

A small, folded up piece of paper glowed alabaster in the light. He paused, and recalled the words hidden inside.

Dear Rhodizite Henry. You've been accepted to Beacon Academy. We have received a trustworthy report of an incident on Fall 37th…

That date marked the most harrying night of Rhod's young life when Shaft 12 collapsed and trapped his entire shift underground. The dozen or so workers down there, Rhod amongst them, had laughed in the dark at first. Annie and Andy had taken charge as one mind. Conserve the oxygen tanks and try not to get bored, they insisted, and soon all of Ainnis-Cloch would get them out by breakfast the next morning.

They spent hours that night trying to figure out who had overlooked what problem. Collapses in their mine were rare, but occasional. The safety department was full of friends and relatives, and they all hedged bets on who'd made what obvious mistake.

They didn't know the culprits were far below, tunneling toward the noise of their feet. The beasts were going north along a path of blind mayhem after hitting the Schnee Company's mine down along the coastline.

"Mark me, Rhod," Lemon Pete had said, "Ah'll kick those Shnee's posh arses so hard they'll wear em as a hat!" Pete could not keep that promise if he'd ever really intended. The burrowing Grimm came for him as their group slept and dragged him off into the dark, fast as a darting rat.

He'd heard of Morlocks, of course. Everyone had heard fairy tales from old folks about the bad times when Grimm practically ruled the world. Seeing them, even one, was a whole other horror. Their claws razor sharp, eyes beady red and snouts plated in bone, ending in red, piggish noses crested with feelers wriggling at the smell of anything.

Feral instinct took over their minds that night as they fought for their lives. Rhod raised his hammer up again and again as white face-plates emerged from the maw of the earth and swung it down endlessly until bone cracked and the flesh collapsed into black mush. His hammer rang in the dark as he swung again and again. The old-timers all swore he'd raised and swung it a thousand times.

But like antibodies after a sickness, the Morlocks came, again and again, replacing the dead in pairs, trios, then little pods. Rhod's palms sweat at the memory of their star-shaped snouts. They would appear beneath the feet of people he'd known for years before a flash of white claws snatched them by their heels and yanked them down into darkness.

He didn't remember much of those harrowing hours, but what stood out were flashes of golden light as three-foot claws battered his aura. They pushed him back, slow but certain until the old-timers were holding him up behind him, whimpering at his ears.

An immense creature arrived, so dark and round the tunnel floor erupted as it emerged. The big Morlock was angrier and hardier than its kin, and Rhod's arms were already numb from the fighting.

His shift mates quailed. A few urged him to run for the deeper parts of the mine. Annie had pushed at his shoulders, trying to press past him.

A massive paw reached out to crush them all, but he'd lunged at its mighty arms and grasped it around its wrist, squeezing tight. The Morlock pressed into him, bigger and heavier than him, a moment away from squishing him dead. Rhod had felt a heavy pit in his gut. A strange warmth in his mind. He held a deep breath in and blocked out all thoughts, save one.

I will not move, and I will not be moved.

A brilliant yellow light filled the tunnel and Rhod watched the big Morlock realize its hand had been captured. It twisted and tugged, becoming frantic and angry, but Rhod didn't give up an inch. Its free hand batted his whole body until one claw broke off against Rhod's chest. At last, in desperation, the big Morlock threw backward all of its' weight. It broke free, leaving it's severed captured arm still squished in Rhod's grasp.

Rhod felt the weight leave him and the golden light around him dimmed to nothing. The group heard rock crumble as a new, artificial light began to seep through the mine's ceiling. It vanished for a second as an old man's voice cursed the dark, the Grimm, and the mines of the world.

"By the Brothers, you poor fellas ain't dead?" the voice hissed as Rhod collapsed against the rubble. His fellow workers shook him to keep him awake. The big Morlock ceased its blind, one-armed flailing and sniffed at the fresh air, searching for a new presence.

"Move, blockheads, let the boy breathe a little!"

An aged face floated out of the dark and peered down at him. Corduroy Carpenter, a traveler last spotted in their town's breakfast dinner, was a sorry looking man with a sorrier attitude.

But he was also a Hunter.

The man turned away from them and toward the one-armed beast rising to its feet. His mallet clutched in one old trembling hand, crashed through the dark before the Morlock could fully right itself. The beast's massive skull folded inward with a single strike before its' body went limp.

"Somebody," Cordy huffed in the dark, "tell me how you're all still bloody alive."

The two parties traded explanations as Rhod lay motionless, body spent from his efforts. Corduroy had been tracking the morlock's movements since Schnee Dust had reported them at Shaft 8 along the coastline, and slipped into Lucky Break mine at the first hole large enough, checking for survivors where he expected none.

"Must've been quite a tussle, young-buck, but Morlocks are stupider than most Grimm, and these were young ones. Well, almost all of them were young. Where did that big cropper's arm go? That you?" The Ragg twins took up the task and described the golden glow.

Rhod's eyes slipped shut as he heard the Hunter laugh.

When he woke up in the clinic on Main Street, the Hunter had been waiting, drinking from a dented flask emblazoned with the symbol of Mantle. He asked Rhod straight on if he'd join the Hunters at the end of the Summer. Rhod refused off-hand. His place was in the mines. Cordy shrugged, spat, and took another swig from his flask.

"You've got raw strength, boy," he slurred through a small count of teeth, "and you're big. Chance is you might've tapped into a Semblance down in that blasted hole. Give it some thought. There are worse futures. Though not that many." He'd staggered out of the room and, to Rhod's assumption, out of the boy's life. Until the letter two months ago.

"Cordy," he whispered to himself, turning the letter over in his hand, "what were ye thinkin'?"

Cordy might've been thinking about the town's future, and had perhaps wanted to spare Rhod a harsh prophecy. Few mines survive a Grimm attack, even one as minor as the fight in Lucky Break. Buyers fled, in spite of a Hunter's assurances, and sought other sources of income. By Armistice Day, the mine was closed down indefinitely. A little after Spring Morning had rung in a new year, the Schnee Company started moving across new sites with all the force of their most aggressive buyers.

Rhod ground his teeth and thought of all the town had lost because of a few monsters.

Monsters, ah killed, he thought, and Cordy said ah could get better at killin'. Why've ah gotta go back to that shite seminar? Why've ah gotta listen to Nick go on 'bout poor folks? Ah don't. Ah won't. Ah wouldn't do it.

Rhod felt a sudden rush of excitement as his father's voice whispered in his mind. His father, who was fond of retelling tales, had always bragged about their mine. His indulgence came from pride.

While half of Atlas was trying to make inroads to the northern Tundra, searching for worthwhile deposits of Ice Dust, his father had been mining the library of Landfall University. Dragging out geological surveys and old-wives-tales for comparison.

He stumbled upon the tale of the 'Black Rock Witch' who conjured fire to drive off Grimm back in the old folk stories of the Highlands. He found the place purported to be the Witch's stomping grounds and spent a tense month searching old sheep lands for a single mote of precious red.

And, by the Elder Brother and the Younger Brother and the Four Maidens to boot, he found one. And another. And another. And another.

Lucky Break, aye! A lucky break will change yer life, bhobain. And never root fer one where everyone else be rooting.

His mother had often pointed out that Zircon Henry had failed more times than he'd succeeded, but she never did so without affection.

"Bhobain," she called from the kitchen, 'quick quick now, yer cuppa's steeping. Don't let it cool."

"Aye, maw," he said, thumping down the steps, his shoulders drawn to his full height.

He entered the kitchen and turned to face Tanner Stile. A sarcastic word died on the man's lips as he squinted.

"Turn that off would you, son, you're blinding me!" Rhod smirked as the man hid his face. Cockroaches don't care fer light, after all. His mother walked over and flicked the helmet lamp off, giving him a small shake of her head.

"Awful sorry, Mister Stile," he said. The man's demeanor remained faux-pleasant but his eyes cut a mean glance at him.

"I'm hearing that quite a bit today," he said. Beryl Henry's shoulders tensed as she handed her son his tea. Rhod took a sip, letting it burn his mouth without wincing. The minty taste scorched down his throat and fed a growing fire in his belly.

"Awful sorry, Mister Stile," he said, all chummy and down-to-earth, "Ah get what you're saying. So, if it's the same ta ye, Ah'll quit here and now." Tanner Stile's mean look vanished beneath confusion.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Rhod?" his mother asked from behind his right shoulder.

"Ah quit, Mister Stile, Ah don't want the job," he grinned, "ah hereby tender me resignation! That's ta say…" he tried not to snicker when Tanner interrupted.

"No no no, I know what that means, son, I just think you're being rather hasty," he glanced at Rhod's mother, "Mayor Henry, I wonder if you might step in here and tell the boy…"

"The boy's name is Rhodizite Henry," Beryl said, not too gently, "and he doesn't need his ma ta speak fer him."

"Well," Tanner Stile pushed away the tea he'd not touched, "that's his decision made then. I'm sorry to hear you're leaving us, Rhod, and I wonder precisely what you'll be doing. After all, there's very little the Schnee Company isn't going to be in charge of in this town soon. We hire from within primarily, and this will almost certainly blacklist you. Company policy, you see."

"Plenty a' this town remains independent, Mister Stile," Beryl folded her arms and leaned against the counter, "the Mayor's Office, fer one."

"Yes," Tanner Stile said with a toady grin, "certainly. That goes without saying, Mayor Henry."

"It doesn't vex me, Mister Stile," Rhod stepped back in, feeling nigh invulnerable, "Ah ain't interested in corporate positions."

"The mine then," Tanner Stile rolled his eyes, "Listen now, Rhod, you know we can't afford to pay you the salary of your former company. We've been over this. New workers-"

"Will be brought in," Rhod said, "Ah see that, Mister Stile. Company policy. Ah ain't mining either."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense, son," Mister Stile said, leaning back in his chair, his growing boredom apparent, "what, pray tell, are you doing?"

"Ah'll be a Hunter," he said.

There was a long silence from both Tanner Stile and Rhod's mother.

The Schnee Company man suddenly burst out in a fit of laughter. It was not, to Rhod Henry, a humanizing sound.

"Oh dear," Tanner Stile said after a moment, "you were serious? But the Hunters? No offense intended, son, but the caliber of such men and women is…"

"'Rare and valuable'," Beryl Henry said, stepping in front of her son, "'and needed by the Order and the whole a' Remnant. It is no small thing ta be asked ta join such ranks as ours. Should ya choose ta pursue yer studies with our school and yer future with the Hunters, know that you are following a calling old as Remnant 'erself.'" She'd recited the words almost perfectly. All but the phrase 'Sincerely, Dr. Glynda Goodwitch'. Rhod smiled and held up the letter like it was check for a trillion lien.

"Ah got the letter some months ago and ah've made me choice," Rhod enjoyed the thunderstruck look on Tanner Stile's face. It was there for only a second, but long enough to relish. Aye, there's some doors even the Schnee Company cannot open. But ol' Rhod Henry did.

"My, what an honor," Tanner Stile said, rising and holding out his hand, "well, son, best of luck to you with your studies."

"Aye," Rhod said, resisting the urge to crush the man's spindly fingers, "best a' luck mining."

"Oh, not to worry," Tanner Stile said, "we're the best at mining. We must be, we're the last game in town." He buttoned his coat and gave Beryl a smile.

"I'm getting the feeling I'm not wanted," he chuckled, "and I'm sure you have a lot to celebrate. Good afternoon, Ms. Beryl." With that, Tanner Stile showed himself out of the house.

"Bawbag," Rhod muttered.

"Rhod," his mother's voice was thin and excited.

"Sorry, ma, miner talk," her hands, so small on his broad shoulders, turned him around. Rhod was taken aback at the sight of tears in her eyes.

"Ma!"

"Oh, Rhod," she said, a smile fighting to stay on her face, "ye look so much alike yer pa now. Do ye mean what ye said? Are ye really goin' ta Beacon? Ye'll be a Hunter?"

The words refused to form in his throat. Tanner Stile had left the room and taken a chunk of Rhod's courage with him. Now, his mother in tears, he was beginning to wonder why he'd said what he'd said. The mine had been everything before today. Even in the soul-dead offices of the Schnees, the mine was still everything. But the Hunters? He'd scarcely heard much about hunting before, but it had always been described as more a way of life than a job, and not the kind he'd ever seen himself in before today. It seemed he'd just rewritten the course of his life by bragging to a suit.

"Ah meant," he tried, "Ah s'pose Ah meant…"

"Ye should go, Rhod," she said, "if ye meant what ye said. Ah didn't think ye'd ever want to, so Ah did not say…Rhod, tell me ye meant it."

"Ma," Rhod said, "what's 'is all about? Why are ye cryin'?"

"Ah read that letter 'alf a dozen times, Rhod. Ah've never been so proud in me life," she held his face in her hands.

"Well, ah guess ah gotta go now, Ma," Rhod said from between her palms, "Ah've got no other option."

"Bhobain," Beryl hugged him, "ye always got home. Don't go forgettin' ye've always got home." Beryl leaned back, her face split by her grin.

"Away and get yerself dressed nice, now! And take off yer da's helmet, fer goodness sakes," she strolled to the phone, dialing a number in already, "Ah'll get your Uncle to spread the word 'bout this. We'll have a hoora big bash at The Roast Beef Coat." She snatched a worn leather contact book from its place on the countertop.

"Go get yer sisters from school, bhobain, and tell 'em," she paused and beamed at him for a moment, "look at him there, me boy, the Hunter."

'Aye, ma," Rhod took of his father's helmet and squeezed it with anxious fingers, "yer boy, the Hunter."

...

Editor Note:

All forms of feedback are welcome, so please leave a review if you like. This story will upload new chapters on a weekly basis, so check back next Sunday for an update. Thank you for reading!


	5. Q

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rip comes by his Master's flower shop for some training before his first day at Beacon for old times sake, but nothing goes as he expected.

Disclaimer: HARQ is a fanwork of the Rooster Teeth Animated Production RWBY. All characters from the original cast of RWBY are owned by Rooster Teeth. 

Special thanks to eliort on DeviantArt.com for their artwork contributions. Thanks to Hector for editing. 

 

\------------

 

The scorpion was oily black in normal light, but the UV lamps of the flower shop's backroom turned it a vibrant cobalt blue. Rip stared hard into her ugly face and did his best to ignore the claws and stinger, raised dangerously into a defensive stance. A bead of sweat crawled down his nose and made it itch.

Vale City was suffocating beneath a late summer heat wave, and his Master kept the inside of her flower shop even hotter to appease her cacti and desert plants. Rip stood in the Lightning-Mantis stance, tense as a spring on his toes, with his hands held outwards with index and middle finger pointing downward. This was all an old method of practicing his mentor had taught him, the scorpion included. Long sessions like this were about burning the stance into your memory so that, in time of battle, it would come to him like an instinct. This time, the round of training had been his idea, scorpion and all. 

He was waiting for Bolad Zi to return from her errand, whatever it was, so she could give him feedback. It was likely the better part of two hours had already passed. 

The scorpion taught its own lesson: looking fear in the face. He recalled the writings of Martian the Wanderer that his master had drilled into his mind. "No hardened soldier, no witness of horror, is prepared for the Grimm." He knew ‘The Deadliest Hunt’ from cover to cover and tried to focus on its wisdom, even as the scorpion's tail tensed above the soft flesh of his hand.

Book 2 Chapter 8 Line 45-47: "Fear is unknown to Grimm. They do not flee; they merely fall back to more advantageous ground. A Grimm holds no regard for its individual survival and thus is uninhibited by fear. To match the Grimm in battle, one must learn to stare unflinchingly at their greatest fears." 

Rip’s nose started to itch. His shoulder’s burned from the strain as they turned slick from sweat, but he kept tight control of his muscles, not letting himself tremble even a little. The scorpion's claws glittered as she flexed them, and her legs tickled Rip’s skin as she shuffled toward his wrist. He angled his hand to the floor by a minuscule amount, letting gravity guide the scorpion back to its place without upsetting it. 

He didn't want to be stung. The sting of an Emperor scorpion delivered a muscle-tensing pain that would live in his palm for days. He knew from experience. Beyond that, Rip wanted to make a point to his master about his growing skill. 

Keys jingled beyond the backdoor. Rip didn’t dare move an inch. He wouldn't celebrate with so much as a sigh until the little monster was off his hand. However, his focus was starting to slip with anticipation. It began a series of little sensations that would soon shatter his concentration. 

It began at his roots. The wood floor had numbed his toes and they screamed at him to tumble. Along his back the UV lamps ceaseless light began to feel twice as hot. The subtle weight of the scorpion felt heavier as his overtaxed muscles struggled with him to let go.

The backdoor lock clicked. His master shouldered it open when it stuck against the floor. Rip allowed the barest fraction of a grin. Bolad Zi did not pause to so much as look at him, walking around him like he was furniture. She took her time to check her plants one by one. The quiet squeak of her sneakers on the floorboards seemed like a shriek in his ear. A tremor ran up his right arm and Rip began to sweat with the effort to keep the scorpion undisturbed. 

The UV’s hum began to drone incessantly in his ears. His vision shifted. Rip was getting annoyed, and not a little scared. Bolad Zi placed something on the counter behind him. 

"Master. You’re back..." the word was a croak. He hadn’t listened to her about drinking water beforehand, and now he felt like one giant prune. The scorpion jittered quickly on his hand and Rip pressed his lips together until they hurt. Bolad said nothing.

His fingers twitched and the scorpion's tail curled up. The motion was familiar. The tension building in tiny muscles, about to be released in a fast jab. Rip reacted first.

The tiny creature arced upwards with a flick of his wrist and Rip barely had time to register his actions before the scorpion began to fall towards the floor. His mind was too firmly stuck halfway between the thoughts ‘what-did-I-do’ and ‘what-do-I-do-now’ to act in time. His master appeared by his side in a kneel, hand out and ready. 

The scorpion landed square in her palm. Bolad Zi straightened, rose to her feet, and deposited the scorpion in a glass habitat. Focused only on her pet, she snatched a live beetle from a plastic case full of its brood and placed it inside the habitat. The scorpion, untraumatized, snatched up and devoured her prey. 

Rip had collapsed. Every muscle he'd been holding began aching with a vengeance. Bolad Zi watched the beetle spasm as her scorpion envenomed its body. She glanced at the adult mantis in the habitat next to it. The slender insect approached the glass to eye the scorpion's meal.

"Lightning could use some food. He looks very hungry," she said. Rip lifted the back of his head off the floor and bit back a groan. He struggled up onto his feet and walked his wiry frame over to stand next to his master, then snatched some crickets from the teeming mass that lived in a box on the shelf above.   
"I was going to feed him," he said. He looked over his mentor with a penitent face. She had returned empty-handed, strangely enough. Bolad Zi rarely spent time outside the shop unless she needed something pressing. 

“So he can just starve while you practice the stance he helped teach you, eh?” Rip popped his handful of crickets into the terrarium. The mantis made itself upright and still as a tree, silent as it waited for its prey to come within range. 

“You wanted me to practice a stance, master, and I held it the whole time you were gone, wherever you went,” Rip said, he rubbed his left shoulder and activated his aura. A sheen of violet light passed over his vision and the aching spots of his body quieted. 

“The Lightning-Mantis Stance, yes, but could you hold Thunder-Horse that long?” She watched the mantis snatch up a cricket and begin to feast.

“Nobody was here to ask me to try Thunder-Horse,” Rip said, his tone cutting a sharper edge, “if you had been, I would’ve done that one.” Bolad turned and fixed him with her calculating pair of brown eyes. Her face was unexpressive, as always, as she spoke. 

“I let you choose your own stance because you know as good as I where you need practice. Do not try to rest your laziness on my shoulders, Rip. But now that you mention it, lower your aura and prepare. Perhaps I should instruct you,” Bolad Zi said. She folded her hands behind her back and looked him up and down. Rip groaned but did nothing else to protest, shaking out his tired arms without saying a word. 

“Horse faces North” Her voice always somehow filled the room without rising in volume. Rip’s body moved instinctively. He spun and dropped to a squat in one fluid movement, his arms moved outward as he raised his hands, palms out, thumbs and indexes forming parallel L-shapes. 

“See?” He said. Bolad Zi paced around him, eyes traveling over every component of his posture for any minor imperfection. 

“I see an adequate student who believes he’s an expert. Now I will see Horse face Southeast.” Rip pirouetted on one foot with only his legs, his body above the waist perfectly still. He gave a loud ‘ho’ as he slammed his right foot back into position, strong and sturdy.   
“Adequate students come from adequate masters,” he said, smirking, “Oops, you insulted yourself.” His smile vanished when her fingers adjusted his right arm at the elbow. She clucked her tongue.

“Self-insult is a skill you alone have mastered, Sifu Rip, now redeem yourself when Mantis faces West. Keep your shoulders looser.” Up he shot, feet shifting forward and back before raising onto his toes, his hands extended and began to weave in the air. 

“Come on, Master,” Rip said, “give me a real challenge.” 

“Here’s one. Stop talking for an entire minute,” she said, moving his left leg back with the gentle press of her foot. 

“Oh alright, ‘shut up Rip,’ haven’t heard that one before,” he grumbled. 

“Challenge failed,” Bolad Zi spat, “Mantis retreats south, Horse advances Northwest, now.” Rip turned, moved backward, spun right, changed stance, and moved forward with two swinging strikes of his clenched fists. Bolad Zi rounded behind him.

“Keep your shoulders looser. Mantis advances southeast,” He rounded on her in the familiar stance, jabbed at her with three lightning-quick strikes that she batted aside in sequence. She adopted the Thunder-Horse stance and pressed him backward. 

“You’re letting me set the pace, Rip, take charge,” She yelled at him in frustration, never breaking her stride. Rip’s deft hands moved her heavy swings away from his head and torso, but she gave him no openings he could use. His face heated up as he realized her game. 

“Fine,” he said, there was a childish whine in his words, “if you don’t believe me. Horse advances!” He took four steps forward, answering swing-for-swing, his left elbow came down on her arm on the third step. On the fourth step, he tried for a haymaker strike at her solar plexus. His fist stopped an inch from its target, all sensation in his right shoulder focused in one, electrifyingly painful spot. 

“That’s…,” he groaned as a terrible pinch on his shoulder made him clench his teeth. In the last half second, Bolad Zi’s whole stance had switched to Mantis without him noticing. Her right hand had snatched him at a pressure point. He couldn’t move his arm without sending a surge of agony throughout himself. 

“Keep these shoulders loose, Rip,” she said, “those aren’t wooden sticks coming out of your torso. Break free of my hold.” Rip’s left arm tried to come down on her grasping arm, barely making a proper Horse strike, her left hand darted out and struck a pressure point at his armpit.

“Don’t be obvious, Rip. Break free of my hold,” she said. Rip’s left hand tried to form a Mantis claw, but his feet took a sloppy stance and he flailed. His cheeks burned when Bolad Zi simply pushed his left shoulder to prevent the strike. 

“Don’t be ridiculous either,” she sounded annoyed like Rip was pestering her, “break my hold.” 

“I can’t,” he growled, he swung a low Horse strike, but he was too flustered to follow through, Bolad Zi snatched his left arm and held it. Humiliation ran through Rip’s head, she was grasping his wrist like a mother holds a disobedient toddler. No force applied. No force needed. 

“You can. Break my hold,” she stared him through with growing intensity, though her voice remained even as ever. 

“I can’t! I know what you’re after! I'm telling you I can’t!”

“Try, Rip,” she said, “break my hold and free yourself.” 

Rip tried to move his right arm, yelped at the pain and tried to pull himself free with his whole body. Pain flared up at both shoulders. 

“I taught you, Rip. I know you can do this. Now break free,” she said. Rip slumped in her grasp. 

“I can’t! Let me go!” Her fingers gave up their death-grip on his shoulder. Even as the ache faded from his Aura, his face was still pinched with anguish as he cut his eyes at his teacher. It further angered him to see her smooth out her vermillion caftan, patterned with tiny dots like distant stars, with perfect calmness on her face.   
"Get dressed. We are done for the day, and you need rest for tomorrow," she left the room with those words. 

Rip slipped on his shoes and the thin t-shirt he'd brought. He emerged into the sunlit storefront, where Bolad Zi was flipping the sign to read OPEN. The afternoon was loitering in the early evening, streets still sparsely populated and bright from the sun.

"Teacher," he said as Bolad Zi fussed with a round cactus "should I stop by on weekends? To train I mean." She shook her head, the small bun of black hair bouncing around behind her. She fixed her eyes on him.

"There is no need. Train every day as I have instructed," She retrieved a pair of clay mug cups and a few ice cubes, "the gymnasium at Beacon will be state of the art." She filled the glasses to the brim from a well-used sink and Rip drank deep.

 

"But my lessons won't stop, right?" he drained his glass, Bolad Zi sipped at hers and studied her apprentice. 

"Your lessons will never stop. 'Every day is a school day’. Isn’t that what Vert Satyr likes to say?”

"But I meant…" Bolad Zi set her glass down with the speed of a viper.

"Rip," she said "I have taught you all I can and you must be satisfied. There will be other teachers" Rip worried his fingers along the rim of the clay cup, one of the few belongings Bolad Zi kept from her times as a Huntress, with an awareness that it would not take great force to shatter it in his grip. That small presence of mind made him place the cherished item on the banzai tree shelf behind him. 

"Why do I need to go 45 minutes to Beacon? You're a Huntress, you can teach me everything I need!" He felt himself losing ground in this debate quickly, every argument he’d prepared in the shower or on long walks for the last month being thrown out the window. 

"I was a Huntress, Rip," Bolad Zi watched a group of children run past the shop, stopping to stare at the strange plants in the window. Or to boldly stare at Bolad Zi and Rip.

“Respectfully, teacher? That's some Bull. You’re as powerful as you’ve ever been, there's no way you're done teaching me.” He gestured towards the backroom. “You’re better than me!” 

Bolad Zi shook her head. She tapped a spot below her left breast and fixed him with a stare. Rip winced as he imagined the warped flesh around a starburst-shaped scar that rested there. It was ten years old by Bolad’s count; the leftover trail of a bullet still lodged deep inside her chest.

“Ah, you mean about all those Grimm I told you about? The ones I fought before this, hmm? Before I was shot? I know what I can and can’t do, Rip." The growl in her voice made Rip turn his eyes away from her. "The truth is, I am not nearly as strong as I was back then. I am not even as strong as I was last month. I shall not be able to train you in much more. Would it be that I was whole and hearty, I’d teach you the Fire-Dragon stance and the Wind-Crane stance. But we live our lives by what shall be, not by what we wish had been.” 

There was a part of him that wanted to scream in frustration as she spoke. He wanted to tell her none of that was good enough reason. But the other part kept him silent by reminding him all he owed this woman. 

“You'd never give me less than everything,” he said, voicing his thoughts without meaning to do so. Bolad Zi looked up and a ghost of a smile touched her lips at his more calm tone. 

“No, Rip, I would not,” she said. She glanced toward the backroom and then back at him. Rip, meanwhile, had barely listened while he psyched himself back up with a dozen other thoughts about how unfair the situation was. 

“There’s something-” she began before Rip cut her off.   
"I don't want to go to Beacon, Ok?" Rip spouted.

"There aren't many Hunter Academies left in the world, sadly," Bolad Zi said as she ran her eyes over a wall of seed packages. Her voice was emotionless, ringing with blatant disappointment, "but Beacon is a good place to grow your talents." Rip scoffed and crossed his arms.

"Maybe I don't want to be a Hunter." The words sounded weak to both his own ears and Bolad Zi. Hiding her expressions, she did not even grace him with a look. She retrieved her water and took another languid sip before speaking.

"Then do not.” Rip’s arsenal of retorts and quips didn’t account for these words. He quietly struggled to come up with something to say. The two stood in silence, surrounded by a rainbow assortment of Vacuon plants and sweltering heat until Bolad Zi spoke again.

"You are afraid of yourself, Rip.” The boy’s eyes lit up at the accusation. His master waved her hand to the floor; a cue to not get excited. “Don’t deny that to me, I know this about you. If you were becoming a store manager or a transient or a janitor, you would fear to take the first steps on your own.” Rip almost recoiled at the word ‘janitor.’ Vert Satyr would sometimes threaten him with that profession when he didn’t do his homework. 

“Teacher, you’re not listening to me.” She shook her head once in response. 

“I find actions speak far louder than words,” she frowned, “especially with you, my sarcastic young friend. As for listening? I’ll not have you critique me for that, Rip. I asked you to spend today at home, to focus yourself and consider the year before you, but you came by here instead and acted like you weren’t going anywhere. I indulged you because I did not wish to upset you. I understand how emotional you are right now.” 

“Gee,” Rip spat, “my heart is just bursting with gratitude, teacher.” Bolad Zi’s thin eyebrows arched as he spoke. Rip felt, once again, like she was treating him too much like a little kid. 

“From the minute you first were wheeled into this store by Vert, I’ve heard you speak without talking. I’ve watched you grow past greater challenges than homesickness. I never once heard any hesitation or surrender.” Rip rolled his eyes as she began a story he knew all too well, one told to him a thousand times by everyone in his life as if he hadn’t lived it. 

“I wanted to give up every single second,” he said, “but I also wanted to walk again, teacher. I had no choice.”

“Of course you did,” Bolad Zi said, “and here you are, standing. Every struggle rewarded with this very moment.” A hint of quiet pride crept into her voice but Rip did not hear it over the competing sides of his brain. He gave the cynical one voice. 

“This is different,” Rip said and realized he had little else to add. 

“Yes,” Bolad Zi replied, “this is much simpler.” 

“No, it’s really not,” he said, “I didn’t have a choice then. I have a choice now.”

“You’d choose to be in a wheelchair again if you had the option?” Bolad Zi’s eyes twinkled with either mischief or vexation as she said it. Rip started yelling at her before he could stop himself.

“Of course not! Don’t do this right now! You’re just shoving me off to Beacon because the Hunters are desperate. You got everyone thinking it's my only way out of East End like you care about it. I won’t listen to this pep talk you’re springing on me and go strolling off like an obedient little kid.” Bolad spun on her heel and Rip, out of reflex, fell into the Mantis stance.

“You are young,” she said, her mouth tight and her voice more dangerous than he’d heard it before, “and upset. So I will not hold those words against you. But my patience for you is at an end. You should go. Hunt well.” Rip closed his eyes and shouted, with more conviction than he had and less certainty that he wanted. 

“I don’t want to be a Hunter!” The silence that followed pleased that stubborn part of himself until he opened his eyes. Bolad Zi was not shocked. Bolad Zi did not gnash her teeth or beg him to reconsider. Bolad Zi, as ever, stared at him and through him all at once with no more expression than a statue. 

“Then don’t be one,” Bolad Zi said, turning away from him to place her cup in the sink, “but don’t stand here yelling at me because I saw potential in you. If you are afraid of disappointing me, then shouting me into submission defeats the purpose. Pretend you are not making a choice, if that helps, but don’t imply that I’d throw you to the Grimm in a bid to save the Hunters. More than anything, Rip, don’t insult Vert and Miriam by believing it isn’t agony for them to send you away. They saw what I did and know you better than I do. They-”

Bolad Zi hesitated.

“-they convinced me to push you to do this. They had to. Rip, I know the dangers of my Order. I know what challenges await you.” Rip’s arms fell to his sides.

“You never told me,” he said in a tiny voice. He felt foolishness, of course, but beneath that hot flush was a fresh rush of hotter anger. Vert and Miriam hadn’t told him any of this. He began to feel like a plastic bag buffeted by three different winds. 

“It didn’t matter,” Bolad Zi replied, straightening up, “I meditated on it at first. I kept my own counsel and decided, in my own time, that they were right. I know what makes a good Hunter if I know nothing else.”

She stared at him motionless for a time, then ushered him into the back where they stood together under UV lights.

"I know you can be a Hunter and I know you will surpass your teacher," Bolad Zi placed her hand in the scorpion's habitat. It flared its claws and tail but she scooped it up and held it still.  
“Sure,” he said, bitter and exhausted. 

“Ah, so now he calls me a liar but can’t even say it out loud,” Bolad Zi said to the scorpion in her hand. 

“That’s not what I said,” he argued. 

“It's what you meant,” Bolad Zi’s tone had grown clipped, “so in the interest of truth, let me be honest with you. I’d like you to leave. I had something to give you, it's what I left to get earlier but I do not feel like gifting it to you anymore. Leave my shop, please, and do not trouble me anymore.” Rip remembered the sound of something on a counter in the back and all at once he felt himself go slack with guilt. He glanced over a saw humble box of wood that, in that instant, he wanted to open more than anything in the world. 

“I’m not...I didn’t...this isn’t what I wanted today,” he said at last. There was a moment of dead air that seemed to last for hours. Bolad Zi’s eyes looked glazed as she broke the silence. 

"We so rarely get what we want, Rip, but that might be because we want the wrong things," Bolad Zi did not look at him, she simply stared into the face of the scorpion as it crawled up her arm. Rip, for his part, was too exhausted to fight. He gave her a stiff bow.

"Hunt well," Rip mumbled over his shoulder as he stepped out.

"Hunt well, Rip. And good luck, with whatever you choose for yourself." Bolad Zi replied, watching the scorpion perched on her shoulder, never flinching.

As the door swung shut behind him, Rip held up his hand to the light of the evening sun. The day’s last clear light was shining and he turned about facing towards the far end of the city form the Little Kingdoms district where Bolad Zi’s shop sat. Over the closely set buildings, past the tallest spire of the Palace of The Valish Kings, a glittering white shape marked Beacon Academy. He frowned and turned to squint as the sun filled his eyes before he set off on his way toward work. The evening had crept up on him, and the dinner rush would be starting soon at the Daily Bread. 

\---------

Editor Note:  
All forms of feedback are welcome, so please leave a review if you like. This story will upload new chapters on a weekly basis, so check back next Sunday for an update. Thank you for reading!


	6. Chance Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While aboard a train to the capital city of Vale, Azeban's curious nature gets her into more than she bargained.

Disclaimer: HARQ is a fanwork of the Rooster Teeth Animated Production RWBY. All characters from the original cast of RWBY are owned by Rooster Teeth.

Special thanks to eliort on for their artwork contributions. Thanks to Hector for editing.

xxx

Azeban had been captivated by Stormsurge Port when she finally arrived. Her airship had spent hours crossing the Slender Sea, which had been so still and expressionless that watching it was almost hypnotizing. The city was a needed, fascinating change of pace. At least, what brief glimpses she'd seen of it was.

She'd pushed against her escort (Mochilla was a patient woman, but they were going to be late) while trying to see everything between their airship's landing zone and the inside of Glaucous Transportation Station. The building was nothing less to behold.

Her mouth hung open at the sight of the giant floor-to-ceiling clock that dominated the north wall of the sprawling station. There were various bas-reliefs surrounding it, showing depictions of armored horseman lead by men or women who bore the twin-axes that symbolized the Vale Kingdom.

"Hey, who are they suppose to be? Valish heroes?" Mochilla looked where she pointed, unblinking. This was all as familiar to her as her own bed, it seemed.

"Generals. Which is near the same thing to the Valish. They love their military here, that's for sure." Mochilla didn't commonly speak poorly of people, but there was a little venom in how she said 'love.'

"Do you recognize anyone?" It was a shot in the dark to ask, but a shot that landed partially. Mochilla pointed at a woman flanking the clock's right side.

"That Misses right there is one of the Cranes. But that's all I got for you." Azeban glanced back at her escort, who was checking her scroll for the next train's departure gate.

"The Cranes? Is that a family?" Mochilla glanced up at her, giving a quiet sigh. She wouldn't take it personally if they were late at this point, but she'd feel bad for the youngin'.

"Cranes are old money around here. They were the big movers and shakers in Vale's army for ages. Since before this city was built, I'd guess. Well, they were and are, to be exact."

"They're still around?" Azeban reacted like Mochilla had said someone just found proof that people live on the moon. No one in the High Crimson Federation could claim their pedigree was older than a city.

"Smaller family now, but yea. In fact, I'm pretty sure their general right now is a Crane. Don't ask me his name, though." Mochilla began to pull Azeban along harder as she walked. The young lady's marveling at craftsmanship and history had stopped her from hearing the loudspeakers announce her train's arrival.

Aboard and settled in, the brand-new country outside her window had temporarily kept Azeban from noticing how uncomfortable her seat was, but it wasn't so much as an hour before they'd passed beyond the walls of Stormsurge and any signs of civilization were left behind.

What took its place was long stretches of sickly-pale coastline and the dour, dark blue waters of the Middle Ocean. Never had Azeban believed a beach could look so miserable, but here one was, faded as a dead fish's eye. Even the sky had fallen into a bad mood as it turned a deep gray.

It stayed this way for most of the afternoon, halting any chance she'd get to see her first Valish sunset. Eventually, the coastline began to vanish from sight as the train ascended to the high plateaus of the Salt Cliffs. It had been strange for her to see land sheer into the sea as if the Elder Brother had simply broken off a giant piece of countryside, but that lost its novelty after hour three.

Everything inside the train car could barely hold her interest without annoying her. Emerald carpets, now faded to a modest mint, struggled to muffle the whine of age-warped floorboards. The seats were real genuine walnut, and they left a genuine numbness in her legs. Her window panes, ornate around the edges, let in just enough of the cold to make her uncomfortable.

Everything felt like it was nagging her to stay awake. She was full to the brim with energy, having spent most of the day seated, and sleeping without laying down was a skill she hadn't mastered yet. Most of her fellow riders had fallen asleep sometime after the old electric bulbs snapped off around 10 pm, save of course for an older gentleman seated next to her, who had manually flicked their isle's back on by a little switch above the bulb.

The man's wife rested her head on his shoulder as he read a book that looked thicker than Azeban's fist. She had thought to ask what it was about, but when she'd given him a little "Hi," the man darted his eyes to her, blinked once, then returned to his book.

Right. Time to get up and stretch.

She slipped past the couple and snuck towards the front of the train, then slid open the door at the end of her car. A sudden flood of noise filled her ears. The rain outside rattled on the cars around her and the rolling metallic sound of the racing train was deafening.

She quickly pulled the door shut behind her and winced at the loud snap it made. The wind pulled at her shawl and raindrops hit her faced like icy darts as she pulled the next car's door open. She peered around the dark carriage and found two-dozen people in uniform, all asleep in their seats like everyone in her car.

The colors of their fatigues might've been deep blue or green, she wasn't sure, but the patches on their shoulders marked them as Valish military. Her heartbeat quickened and she recalled her grandmother's warning about the humans of Vale.

We are Faunus who live free, she'd said, and that is reason enough. Azeban held her breath for a moment as she waited to see if anyone would wake up and turn hostile.

The sleepers dozed onward and Azeban found that, after a moment of observation, they looked rather funny. They slept shoulder-to-shoulder, men and women alike, some with their heads slouched forward and others with their mouths hanging open. They snored almost in unison, in a rhythm that made her think of a marching cadence. Left, left, left, left, right, left.

She padded down the aisle, careful not to swat anyone with her tail. With an impish smile and a saucy salute at the slumbering soldiers, she braved the crossing from one car to the next again. She worked extra hard to not let the door slam shut this time, which came at the cost of her hair and shawl getting soaked by the storm.

The next car was empty of any passengers, which puzzled her until a lengthy flash of lightning revealed the room as a dining car. She gasped at the momentary beauty of it. The lightning caught two crystal chandeliers that hung like inverted wedding cakes above round table-tops of smoky glass. Behind a gilded countertop, shelves of bottled spirits played with the strobes of light from outside. The lightning finally ended, plunging everything back into darkness for a pause before a terrible crash of thunder cackled above.

Azeban crept to the windows and settled on the comfortable upholstery of a fancy booth with every intention to stay. Once she was tired enough to sleep, she bargained, she would creep back to her seat and all would be fine, but for now, this would be her own little mansion on wheels.

She began to fantasize of what tomorrow would bring. She couldn't begin to imagine what Vale would look like when she arrived. The train car she now sat it was finer than any vehicle in all of High Crimson. According to her brother, Vale was a land of old castles built for powerful monarchs and sleek towers for modern business. She leaned forward, cheek almost pressing against the window to see if she could glimpse it ahead of their train.

The train car lit up once more, but this time the light was artificial, steady, and harsh. Azeban squeezed her eyes shut and gave herself away with a pained grunt. Someone rushed towards her from the side of the train that faced the engine. As she covered her eyes, a voice snapped at her that seemed louder than the thunder outside.

"What are you doing here?" The man who was speaking clearly did not care to wait or apologize.

"Nothing," she said, "I wasn't doing anything." She tried to keep her voice from showing her annoyance. She took her hands away from her face and blinked at a few stubborn spots. A man with a comb-over and a pencil-thin mustache was giving her a perturbed sneer. He wore the type of neat red vest she'd seen other attendants wearing earlier.

"You shouldn't be here, the dining car isn't open," the man snapped, "and lone children aren't allowed in here even when it is. Where are your parents?" She fixed her eyes on the man's face,

"I'm traveling alone," she said, a drop of venom entering her voice, "and I'm seventeen." She realized that her case wasn't helped by the fact that she was kneeling on a booth like a little kid.

"Where's your ticket? Let me see your ticket," he pushed his hand into Azeban's face and held it there. She felt like a dog with a shoe facing its frustrated owner. Azeban glanced at the man's nametag.

"Ok, Francis," she said, patting down her pockets. She produced a large ticket that was snatched from her hand without hesitation. As the attendant squinted at the writing, Azeban took in the room. In the light, she found it not nearly as beautiful as it had been glimpsed in the dark. The white marble countertop looked ridiculously out of place amidst the wood and the green curtains were threaded with gaudy gold patterns.

"So," Francis sighed, "I see you're set up in a commercial class seat? You're quite lost, aren't you? See this little 'C' on the corner of the ticket?" He turned it back to her and tapped the spot. Azeban reached out to take it back and bit her tongue when the man refused to hand it over.

"Yes," she managed to growl, "I see it."

"There's nothing here that gives you a reason to be in the dining car. Now, you'll come along with me back to your seat. But first, I'm marking your ticket." He produced a permanent marker, made two practiced marks on her ticket, then tossed it onto the table for her to pick up. It now had a black "D" on it that she imagined meant something to someone on this train. He watched her, foot tapping, standing with his arms crossed. Azeban shoved it into her pocket and slid out into the aisle. As she moved, Francis hovered at her back and practically marched her the way she'd come.

He jostled her tail, possibly on accident or to further annoy her. If that little pass at her had been on its own, she would've thought a nasty thought and left him alone. As a cherry on top, Azeban realized that she couldn't stomach any of this a moment longer.

You asked for a little Faunus brat, Francis? Well, you got a Quinn. She smirked as she eyed a light switch right next to the exit. It must've had a twin that Francis flicked when he first entered the dining car. Azeban played the cowed little girl until her hand touched the door handle. She glanced over her shoulder and gave Francis a grin.

"What?" the man asked a split-second before Azeban snatched the head his flashlight and twisted it out of his grip with a flick of the wrist. Before he had time to bark at her, she'd used her free hand to snap the nearby light switch and plunged the car back into perfect darkness. She threw open the door, pressed up against the wall, and sidled past Francis as he sputtered in the darkness. Her little trick worked and he, assuming she'd bolted back into the soldiers' car, ran right out into the rain.

She disposed of his flashlight as if it disgusted her, then stopped to watch the fruit of her efforts. The soldiers' car fills with yellow light and confused shouting. Francis getting a harangue from two-dozen cranky warriors made her smile devilishly. She moved quickly towards the front of the train and found an enclosed threshold between the dining car and the next carriage. The door made the most polite little click as it shut behind her.

This is why I didn't hear him. As the rush of petty vengeance melted away, she realized her new predicament. She'd sealed herself off from the far side of the train car and certainly made a nemesis of that man for the rest of her ride. The idea of playing cat and mouse all night with him made her almost sick.

The next carriage was even nicer than the dining car. It made the commercial class look like storage with folding chairs bolted to the floor. Glass doors with brass handles separated the corridor from the passengers; soft red curtains gave each compartment a further sense of privacy. She tried a few doorknobs and found them locked.

At the far end of the carriage, she saw a fraction of light on the plush carpet that covered the aisle. She weighed her few remaining options. The curtains were drawn but the soft light from behind them clearly meant someone was up. Light filled the window to the dining car, making her head turn. It was time to act or get caught.

Maybe, she thought, the person in this cabin can't be worse than Francis. With that hope, she opened the door and stepped inside bold-as-you-please. She backed away to the far end of the door's blind-spot and found herself pressed right up against the window. She spared a glance at the occupant.

He was her age, she guessed, and had a look of reasonable confusion on his face. Close-cut chocolate colored hair and the near uniform gray color of his clothes made her grimace. He looked like a soldier or a cadet of some kind. His eyes were a gray that bordered on black, like a thunderhead, and the steep-arched eyebrows he had gave his face a stern expression.

Her eyes flickered down a sword laid across his lap. It was sheathed in a red saber and the young man had been in the process of winding some kind of feathered tassel around the end.

"Sorry," she said, smiling nervously, "I…" three sharp raps on the door cut her off. The boy rose and his face set into a more composed, suspicious squint. Azeban shook her head once but couldn't read what he was deciding. Another fierce knock on the glass drew him to answer. Her heart rose up hopefully when the boy opened the door enough to glance out but not for the attendant to see in.

"What?" his tone was clipped, and his voice had a slight accent to it that she'd never heard before.

"Oh," Francis said, full of the courtesy he'd lacked with her, "a hundred apologies, sir," his courteous voice wavered as he continued, "but did you see a Faunus come through here? A short girl?" Azeban watched the boy carefully, holding her breath. The boy's eyes had started to narrow at Francis, perhaps at how the man had said 'Faunus.' He didn't hesitate to answer.

"I haven't. Why do you ask, is something the matter?"

"She's...," Francis confidence began and tapered off. Azeban grinned as she heard him pause at his slow realization of what he had to say.

"She's not... in the right train car," he mumbled.

"Well," the boy said, unimpressed, "I hope she finds her way back then. Goodnight." He shut the door, clicked the lock into place, and took his seat. Azeban's ear swiveled as Francis went to the next cabin and tried again. This time an old lady's voice clearly gave him a few words she'd wanted to say, plus a few more than what was necessary.

"Right on, stranger," Azeban said, talking quietly after Francis had stalked away, "you're a real ace for helping me. Sorry I roped you into things." She leaned forward on the edge of her seat and extended one hand. The young man mirrored her and seemed perplexed when she grasped him by the forearm.

"Hessian," he said, his voice was softer now and sounded a little shy, "are you alright? Why was that man bothering you?"

"Azeban," she introduced herself, "and, well.. We were bothering each other, let's just say. He was being rude and pushy, I was stubborn and faster than him. A lot happened." She leaned back into her seat and note for the first time how damn comfortable it was. No bare wood for this carriage. It was soft as a sofa and large enough for her to splay out on. "Again, sorry to bring you in on it."

"No trouble," Hessian said, trying a smile of his own, "but what will you do now? He'll keep looking." Azeban shrugged.

"Honestly, If I'd thought that far ahead I wouldn't be here. But you seem nice enough, so we're all fine." Azeban leaned closer to the window and searched for movement. "Though you've got a point, Hessian, I'm in a corner now. I guess I'll wait him out and try to sneak back to my seat." Hessian chuckled.

"His casus belli isn't very good, is it? 'She wasn't in her seat.'" Azeban was delighted to hear this.

"Right! This guy was a joke. Listen, I get that it's his job and all, but he..." Hessian put his finger to his lips as a pair of boots marched down the hallway past them again. Francis was ever dutiful, it seemed. Hessian leaned forward and whispered.

"But I can't imagine you'll be able to get back there without him seeing you," Hessian spoke with a sweet amount of concern for her. Azeban responded with a soft-spoken brag.

"Oh? I'm a little insulted. Don't worry about me, Hessians. I can be very hard to place when I so choose. Francis has nothing on a stalking Beowulf, I doubt he'd find me." Azeban folded her arms and drew herself up with a smug wink. Hessian sat up in his seat at her words.

"Are you saying you've actually fought Beowolves," he asked, "or are you just exaggerating?" Azeban beamed. She hadn't gotten a chance to really talk to anyone in hours, and now she had a chance to dole out a little mystique. The boy across from her was surely a military boy or something like that.

"Fought enough to get accepted to Beacon," she said, waiting to see how that fell. She was surprised at the response she got. Hessian seemed intrigued but not as impressed as she'd hoped.

"I see," he said, "but I'm pretty sure you don't need to have killed Grimm already to get into Beacon though." Azeban frowned.

"How can you be so sure about that?" she said. He wasn't wrong for all she knew, but she wasn't about to let him take her down a peg.

"Because I've never killed one," Hessian said, a little smirk crawling across his face. Azeban jaw slowly drew open.

"You're joking," she said, "really?" Hessian picked up his sword, going back to winding the tassel around it.

"You sound so shocked," he said playfully, "I'm a little insulted."

"The odds of bumping shoulders with another student aren't exactly high, Hessian," Azeban said, "and, no offense, but you've got a bit more of a military vibe than a Hunter." She hadn't considered her observation to be unkind, but Hessian frowned and looked away when he heard that.

"Anyone can become a Hunter," he said, tying on the tassel with some extra force.

"Right," Azeban replied, "sorry, Hessian, I didn't mean anything by that." She twiddled her thumbs, trying to think of a save to make herself not look like a jerk. I just meant that I guess… Ok, I'll put it this way. Where I come from, this was what I was trained for since I was about six, so I guess I have my own ideas of how Huntsmen look, ok? You don't need to listen to me." She looked up and saw that Hessian's face had transformed into the picture of awe.

"Since you were six? I didn't even pick up a sword until I was ten. Where are you from?" Azeban hushed Hessian this time, now more aware of their volume. She almost answered his question, but a hundred warnings from her grandmother and mother stalled her. Hessian seemed nice enough, but a part of her couldn't ignore that he was human.

"Oh, a little backwater village in Mistral," she offered.

"A lot of trouble with Grimm there?" Azeban glanced away. Hessian had found the lie in her story fascinating, and now she had to improvise an entire second identity. She started searching her mind for all the half-truths she could employ.

"Plenty. We're right by the capitol," she said. Relatively close by, at least, she thought to herself. "It's very modest living there. There's nothing to do in town." Because there is no town. "We don't like to bother people. We've always kept to ourselves. " Hiding counts as keeping to yourself, right?

Hessian waited expectantly for more details, deflating a little when he realized she'd finished. Nice going, Azeban. At least he's impressed with you. Got your wish.

"I'm from here," he gestured to the rain-soaked window, "the Salt Cliffs. We've had Grimm come through before, but the military's never far away. I remember when I was four, these things came up out of the south. Daredevils. They look like horses, but much bigger. They liked to sprint at people in the open and trample them. We had to call Hunters in for that one, they kept sidestepping our soldiers."

"I see," Azeban said, "and ever since then you've wanted to be a Hunter?" Hessian turned shy again and looked down at the sword in his lap.

"Sort of," he said. In the quiet that followed, Azeban realized she hadn't heard Francis in a while. She rose, her body heavy from resting in such a nice seat, and stretched.

"Well, I better try my luck now," she yawned, "nice meeting you Hessian. Maybe we'll spot each other at Beacon." The boy didn't say anything for a minute but gave her a little nod. As she put her hand on the doorknob, he spoke up.

"You don't have to go," he said, "you can stay if you want." Azeban turned around and leaned on the glass door, arms crossed.

"Are you sure? I was worried I might be bothering you, Hessian." He nodded and glanced up at her with a small smile.

"Not at all. I could help you get to the campus tomorrow," he said, "I know the city fairly well." Azeban began to sit down again.

"Oh, I see how it is," she said with a sly whisper. "You're just worried I'll get lost in your big, scary city?" Hessian shook his head quickly, contrite.

"No," he said, "nothing like that…I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that you couldn't find your way." Azeban was a little startled at his sincerity.

"I was kidding with you, Hessian, that's all. I'd be very happy to have your help." She found herself fighting off a yawn as she spoke. She gave him a guilty look.

"In fact, " she said, "if it's not a problem for you, I'll take you up on that offer right now. I'm dog-tired from all the action." With no hesitation, Hessian rose up and flicked off the lamp hanging between them, then settled into his seat.

"Oh wait, your sword…" she began, a little guilty.

"I can do it tomorrow," he said, " and I should get some sleep, too. We'll both have a full day." Azeban laid down on her seat. She listened to the click-clack of the train passing over the rails and had the sudden urge to close her eyes and did exactly that. Here there was no crush of body against body. No rude snoring or obsessed staff people. Just her and a new friend.

"Hessian, you awake?" She asked after a moment, her voice a whisper.

"Yes," he whispered back, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just wanted to say thanks again."

"O-oh," Hessian said, sounding flustered, "of course, no problem at all."

There was another long moment of silence before the boy spoke.

"Hey, Azeban?" He was careful about how he pronounced her name.

"Yes, Hessian?"

"You can call me 'Hesh' if you want to," he paused before dotting his request with a little modest 'good night.'

In the dark, Azeban smiled. She liked the way that name sounded.

"Ok, Hesh. Good night."

xxx

Editor Note:

All forms of feedback are welcome, so please leave a review if you like. This story will upload new chapters on a weekly basis, so check back next Sunday for an update. Thank you for reading!


	7. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhod wanders into some big trouble, before having a chance encounter of his own.

Disclaimer: HARQ is a fanwork of the Rooster Teeth Animated Production RWBY. All characters from the original cast of RWBY are owned by Rooster Teeth.

Special thanks to eliort on for their artwork contributions. Thanks to Hector for editing.

xxx

Rhod stepped off the subway car and looked confounded at his surroundings. Across from him, a wall bore large letters written in faded paint across the curved wall of the metro station.

HUNTER'S MEMORIAL END OF BLUE LINE

The tiles on the walls were streaked with smears of hardened concrete that patched up places they'd chipped over the years. A few yards from the front of the train, a half circle of concrete sealed off a forgotten subway line. The platform was devoid of life, save for himself and a grubby man of about fifty who was methodically checking a few vending machines for change.

How must ye have to've wronged Vale City to deserve a memorial like this? Rhod hefted his duffle bags over each shoulder, jostling both his shoulder pads as he walked onward.

The armor was simple and sturdy padding, protecting his shoulders and knees. It was the result of a month's work cutting and fastening together pieces of his old mining gear. His father's helmet topped his head, making him look equally as fortified as he was out-of-place. His luggage had no room for all of his gear, so he'd been left no choice but to don it all when he disembarked from his boat at Otr's Landing, a spot out at the city's northern border.

That had been quite a sight. The blue of the bay, the white wall encircling the city, and the red stretch of Forever Fall Forest tracing the edges of both water and kingdom. He could only imagine what Beacon, or even the rest of the city, would look like.

He kept his face down as he emerged into the late morning sun, his eyes blinking at the light with a practiced reflex. The nearest buildings were brick and steel factories so rusted, crumbled, and husked-out that they looked as steady as a paper dollhouse. To one side was a road that emptied onto a weather-beaten drawbridge, speckled with what was left of its original paint job. It leads to a concrete island that showed signs of life; that is, telephone poles were coated in flyers and decorated with sneakers draped over their drooping wires. There was nothing to his other side but a beach that stretched to a shore of jagged rocks surrounding the brim of a slanted, fortified seawall bordering the city's coast. He took in all around him for a hard pause before realizing he was much more lost than he'd first assumed.

He searched the eastern horizon and found Beacon nestled between the leaning smokestacks of a dozen silent factories. He'd gone from being far away from Beacon to very far away from Beacon.

Hunters' Memorial?

"Oh, fer the Brothers' love," he grumbled out loud to himself, "Rhod, what were ye tinkin'?"

When he'd arrived in the city proper after a cramped airship flight, he'd picked that station for its likely name. As if there would've been a stop labeled HUNTERS GO HER.

He glanced over his shoulder, towards the southern stretch of the mighty wall that protected the city. A sign caught his eye, faded green and standing slightly crooked, that told him ahead was the way to the subway terminal leading to Mountain Glenn.

"Bloody stars," he said, at once drawn and repulsed by the thought. Even a mining town like Ainnis-Clotch, far across the sea, was filled with second-hand horror stories of that disastrous night in Vale's history. It felt like the most obtuse example of all ill omens.

Rhod rubbed his eyes, heaving a sigh that became a growl of frustration. He wandered over to lean on the railing overlooking the seawall. The ocean stretched out from the Bay of Patch to some unseen spot where it became the Great Bay of Two Kingdoms. A week ago, he'd barely seen more than his mining town, and now he stood at an intersection of life, death, history, and industry.

All he could think about was how damned tired and lost he was.

"Spit to see which ways up," his da would've said, "then dig til you strike sunlight." He turned to the little island across the bridge. It didn't need an hour of walking or another trip on the confusing network of subway rails so it would have to do. He adjusted the bags on his shoulders and crossed over.

The road forked suddenly at the island end of the bridge. A West End and an East End. Rhod frowned as he noted that, at some point in the night, someone must've snuck up to the sign and defaced it. A large B had been spray-painted in white so that it East End now read 'Beast End.' A few faded marks outlining fresh white lettering suggested this was not the first time. His boot kicked an empty can of spray paint away on the asphalt, making a bigger racket than Rhod had intended.

"I've been hoping to catch one of you thugs in the act," a voice spoke from his right with spiteful triumph.

Rhod turned and saw a trio of boys his age stepping to him from the shadows of an overgrown tree that had burst the borders of its street planter and cracked the sidewalk around it. A sign that read RECONCILIATION STREET was almost lost in its branches. He was so caught off guard that he actually smiled as they emerged.

"Good mornin' and good life, fellas, might'nt ye give a lost oaf a little bit o' direction?" His smile slowly shrank as he took in the contempt on their leader's faces. The one who spoke had lion's ears peeking out of a thick swoop of golden hair. His eyes, likewise, were catlike and deep green. They looked at him with all the force of a cannonball.

"You're a little late to the fun, human," the lad said in a hard voice, "one of your friends got here first, sometime in the early morning. Or maybe you're here for something worse? What's the armor for?" Rhod blinked as he sized the three boys up quickly, his face poker-blank all the while.

The three boys were Faunus, and none seemed pleased to see him, though the leader seemed amused in some dark way. For lack of a better idea, Rhod smiled and gave an awkward little laugh.

"Ye got me aw wrong, mate, Ah was nae out fer trouble," he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, "Ah'm trying tae find Beacon Academy." His challenger grimaced at the sound of his voice.

"The hell did you just say?" the lion-eared boy looked angrier, perhaps a little off guard. "Are you trying to play us like you're stupid or something?"

"Naw," said Rhod, a little uncertain if it was the right answer, "Ah'm trying tae learn me way up as a Hunter." One of the two boys snickered and elbowed his friend. He whispered something Rhod barely heard, but it made the other laugh. His ears burned.

"I...what.. Are you drunk, kid? The hell is wrong with your voice?" the boy snapped. Rhod frowned and began to feel a little annoyed himself.

"Nae call tae be coorse with me, mate, Ah'm only lost. Ah'm fae Atlas, naw it's yer business, and Ah'm here fer schooling. A' Beacon. D'ya ken the trolley stop? Beacon trolley stop?"

"Jimmy," said one of the loungers, still by their tree, "I think this guy's just some yokel. He's gotta be harmless. Hell, he can barely string a sentence together."

The one with lion ears glanced over his shoulder with a venomous glare, then turned it on Rhod. He looked the tall Atlasian up and down, sneering.

"Get out of my town, human," he mumbled, turning back to his friends to walk away. Rhod gritted his teeth, managing some politeness when he responded.

"A'right, sure, mate, only Ah dinnae yet know how tae get tae Beacon. Do ye ken the way tae Beacon?" One of the other boys made a face like he was holding his breath, then finally burst out into a cruel laugh.

"Brother alive, I knew the Hunters were desperate, but I guess they just let everyone in now! This guy's sober as a man outa church and that's how he talks?!" The boy blurted out the insult between booming laughs, getting a rise out of his mate as well.

"Don't be idiots," snapped Jimmy, before locking eyes with Rhod in a fierce stare, "he's making it up cause he's scared of us." Rhod could've handled being called a coward or a liar individually. Both at once was intolerable.

"Ah'm nae scared of ye," he said, "an' its hoora bad tae call somebody a liar where ah'm fae." Jimmy turned, a smile playing at the edge of his lips.

"Brother Jude, Brother Skein, fall in," he snapped. Both boys, one swarthy with the eyes of a hawk and the other with curly hair around a pair of ram's horns, stepped into place on either side of their leader. Rhod felt himself tighten up in anticipation of a fight.

He cursed himself. Pride afore the hurly-burly, Rhod, ye damn prat!

The three of them barely reached Rhod's shoulders but they had him outnumbered. In the sunlight, he realized all three of them were wearing matching necklaces of black twine strung with a single large white tooth.

"Friend," the swarthy one, Skein, said, "Brother James is being awfully nice, believe it or not, so be a good 'ol bumpkin and walk away."

"Ah dinnae ken who crapped in yer garden, mate, Ah can tell ye it wasnae me. A' least ye may apologize. Mayhaps ye only ken how tae talk? Tell me Beacon's trolley stop, sharpish!" The ram-horned lad, Jude, stopped chuckling and turned sour.

"Boy, you really are dense, kid. Get lost or get bent. Do. You. Understand? Or should I repeat it in it yokel for you?" Rhod's hands tightened into fists around the straps of his duffle bags.

Uncle Aiken had often said thumping someone who deserved it was nothing to be ashamed of. He wanted to thump these three pretty sorely. Considering how heavy his luggage was, he could probably swing it with the force of a hammer.

But he was to be a Hunter. He had more important things to do; a glance at his watch reminded him that orientation began in two hours, and he still didn't know how to get to Beacon.

"A'right," he said, low and dangerous, "if yer set on being rude, Ah'll leave ye be." He turned and marched back towards the bridge, simmering with rage and flushed with humiliation. He almost wished they'd throw a final taunt his way so he could justify spinning about and charging all three of them.

All he heard was their footsteps beginning to shadow him. His mind started to race. If these boys really were all talk, they would've left him to walk away. There was something more sinister going on. At first, he considered doing as they asked in the hope they might back off. He saw a vision of himself trapped across the bridge in an abandoned part of the town with no one but these three for company.

With not a lot of ideas, he darted left around a corner and raced down Reconciliation Street. Brother James made a cry of surprise before the three boys started speeding after him. Rhod sprinted -not something he was fond of doing- with his duffle bags punching him in the lower back as he went. The street stretched into a three-way intersection in the shape of a triangle.

He passed a growing number of citizens, all Faunus as far as he could see, who yelled variants of 'slow down' at him and his pursuers. Whoever these boys were, witnesses did not frighten them. Already low on steam, he decided to make a stand somewhere with whatever gas he still had in the tank.

A squat townhouse with a deli offered respite through a "We're Open" sign. The door was flung open, sending a chalkboard menu crashing to its side as Rhod decided to have it out there.

His boots screeched as he spun around on the tiles. Both his duffle bags hit the floor with a heavy thud. One still held his hammer inside, and there wasn't time to root around for it. He snatched a steel chair from its place at one of three little tables, then practiced swinging it before he took a stance and waited.

Nerves high, he searched his surroundings and took note of the only other occupant in the little deli. A lad, a human lad, stared up at him with mouth full and soft purple-pink eyes wide in shock. He had been hunched over a barely-touched plate of ham steak with two fried eggs on the side.

"Hoora sorry, mate," Rhod huffed, "but ye'll want tae clear out in a moment." The boy looked over his shoulder as he heard Rhod's pursuers rush into the deli. Brother James glanced at Rhod's chair and motioned for his friends to halt.

"You should have just left, human," he hissed, he drew a switchblade from the back of his pants. Rhod bared his teeth and tried to look tough as nails.

"Aye? Ye might've told me the fecking trolley stop and Ah'd be gone fae yer life forevermore! Now what ye want? To have a go at me? Aim to trim me fingernails with that?" Rhod growled with his nastiest inflection. Now would've been a perfect time to figure out how that semblance of his worked, but he'd faced many Grimm without it. He could take a few boys. Even with just a chair.

"Nah, let me get those fingers instead!" James snarled, behind him Brother Skein and Brother Jude looked between themselves and their leader's knife. Perhaps they were surprised how quick this had escalated. Rhod felt a little thrill of adrenaline at that. He liked that they were scared.

"Wait, James this is-" Jude began. His leader was out for blood and rushed forward to take it. Rhod got ready behind his chair with a sharp inhale, but a blur of movement from the right intercepted him and his attacker. Suddenly, everything turned still.

"Ok, Jimmy Bombard," the skinny boy said, "I think that's enough." Rhod tried to piece together how the little seated lad with the periwinkle eyes had managed to wrap two sinewy arms around Brother James.

All at once, he'd gone from tucked in a corner to grasping the Faunus' wrists and twisting both arms at funny angles. Brother James looked frustrated more than pained, but he seemed to wince whenever he tried to struggle.

"Rip," James snarled, "oh, you're dead meat this time! Never leave that little hole you live in again, or I'll bring the boys over and... Let me go, damn it!" Rip spun Brother James around so that his back faced Rhod and James faced his stupefied comrades, both trying to decide between helping their friend, flanking Rhod or just start bargaining for Jame's freedom.

"Afraid I can't do that, Jimmy, or you might try something stupid with that little needle of yours. Drop it and you're free. I don't have another reason to keep hugging you like this." Brother James did little else besides wriggle and shriek indignities.

"Alright, HEY!" A deep voice bellowed with a loud clap of the hands. A moment later, the kids watched a big, round beachball-of-a-belly emerge from the deli kitchen ahead of a great big man as dark as Rhod but with double the hair (though that didn't say much.) The man's head was topped with bull horns and bovine ears and his face was flabby, coated in stubble.

The old man carried himself proudly like an old-time general marching through a victorious battlefield, swinging his heavy arms on either side of his body, one of them clutching a wooden baseball bat. He looked everyone over calmly, almost bored, but clearly frustrated.

"Ok. Everybody in this deli, and I mean everybody, whose packing any kind of steel is gonna drop it right now before I say another word," he shot Rhod a glare and bobbed his head meaningfully, "especially if you're steel is my damn property, youngblood!" Rhod set the chair down and, after a loud 'ahem' from the newcomer, sheepishly returned it to its place at a table.

"Jock," Rip called out, "you don't need to get involved."

"Uh-uh. Shut up," Jock barked wagging a finger, "I said I wasn't gonna have to say another word. I ain't sure who to be mad at yet, so everybody's on the hook until I say otherwise." He glared at Jude and Skein. " Not one more time. Drop it, whatever it is, I wanna hear it hit the tiles, boys."

"But we didn't do anything," Jude whined. The portly man focused into their eyes, lips tightening, nose flaring, and his big meaty hand wringing the hilt of his bat like it was a wooden neck. Jude and Skein winced with embarrassment, then tossed their switchblades onto the floor.

Jock eyed Brother James.

"Jimmy Bombard, you drop that little toothpick on your own, or I'm gonna let Rip help you," he scolded. Rip leaned over Brother James' shoulder and Rhod heard him whisper.

"C'mon, Jimmy. This is already over. Don't be difficult just to be difficult, man." Brother James tried to give him a vicious headbutt, but Rip leaned away in time. Rhod saw his grip tighten and heard James yelp. Everyone waited, Jock most patient of them all, until the knife clattered to the tiles a second later.

"Look at all this drama," Jock mumbled, arms waving over his head. He exchanged his bat for a broom and dustpan. "Whoever's here that didn't come to eat, get out and stay out. Rip, you let Jimmy go now. Jude Ramshead, Skein Ballo, I don't want to hear a word from you or I'll go knock on your door and tell your mamas and your papas what just happened in my store."

The boys stayed quiet and still as Rip did what he was told. Jock swept the three switchblades into his dustpan and dumped them in a garbage can behind the counter, then held the can by its brim to offer it to the boys.

"You should chuck those necklaces in there too, while you're at it, Jimmy," Jock said, "no good is gonna come of any of this. Whatever those goons told you to get you so riled up, remember that I was the one who got put on a boat to Menagerie, not you. When Ol' Jock starts strutting through town scaring strangers, then you'll know it's time to throw in. Until then, why don't you go get some more schooling?"

Brother James' eyes flashed with little points of green fire. Even as he backed away he looked ready to leap on Rip. There was such a mixture of rage and humiliation on his face that Rhod was starting (just barely) to feel sorry for him.

"You're making a mistake, brother," James said, barely holding back his temper, "these humans won't repay your kindness in the end. You're rejecting your real people! The White Fang will remember this on the day the walls come down and the Faunus take their revenge!" Rhod looked puzzled with that.

If your walls come down, the Grimm come in. Then nobody's having a good day when that happens, mate. Rhod pondered the boy's words, then glanced at their necklaces once more and realized that the white teeth were, in fact, all long curved fangs. He would have laughed in the kids face if not for his company. Apparently, the White Fang, 'scourge of the Hard-won Peace', was a little desperate themselves.

Rip shook his head. "Good grief, Jimmy. 'When the walls come down..' Where'd you get that line? You and me used to shoot hoops together. What happened to you?"

"I got real, Rip," Brother James said, though with a tad less fire than before, "stay out of our way from now on. Brothers, let's move out." The three youths stared down Rhod and Rip as they left. They moseyed down the street looking cool and unperturbed like they all hadn't been disarmed by an old man.

"And you," Rip said, giving Rhod a cool look, "you got fifteen minutes before I make you leave! They'll hunker in a blind alley somewhere and wait for you to pass by. Go along West End. In fact, go right along the old boardwalk over by the water. Those boys have marching orders that keep them here. Make a right back across the bridge and take a train back into the city. Hang around and they'll go crying to someone who isn't scared of Jock-" The old Faunus shook his broom at Rip as he cut him off.

"Hang on, Rip, before we throw him out on his ear, maybe hear him out? Why'd you come here anyway, son? East End is not much a place for humans to just go slumming. It's a neighborhood, not a lot to do anyway. Be honest with Ol' Jock, if you came looking for trouble then you owe me an apology."

"Ah was only trying tae get tae Beacon Academy," Rhod said, sitting the chair he'd nearly used as a weapon, "honest, Ah meant no trouble! Well, not a' first." Jock looked surprised when Rhod mentioned the Hunter school. Rip looked absolutely thunderstruck, if not a little sick.

"No way," Rip said.

"Aye, me a Hunter-in-training," Rhod smiled as he shrugged and felt like a big fool. Hunters didn't pick fights with people on city streets. To say nothing of squaring up inside of a deli. What burned was how badly he had wanted their fight in the end, before these nice people had come to his rescue.

Jock's laughter brought him out of his own head.

"You always hear people say it, Rip! The Divine Brothers lock one gate and open another, right slim? But they don't tell you it's a giant from Atlas that's gonna bust it open!" Jock laughed very hard at his own joke.

"You're in luck, youngblood. My friend here is about to join the 'illustrious ranks of the Hunters' himself. Aren't you Rip?" Rip, in perfect opposition to Jock, seemed about to throw up.

"Yeah," he mumbled, "how about that." Jock frowned and gave him another slap on the shoulder, not hard but more pointed.

"Don't be rude, Rip, ask him his name and shake his hand! Keep it professional." Rip shook hands like Rhod was wearing a black hood and standing next to a guillotine.

"Rhodizite Henry," the big lad said, "of Ainnis-Clotch in Atlas. Yer a dab hand at fighting, Rip."

"Sure," Rip said, offering the weakest smile Rhod had ever seen, "Rip of…well, here. East End. Nice to meet you."

Doesnae seem that way.

"There we go," Jock grinned, "Rhod why don't you take a seat with Rip and I'll whip up some eggs for you. Don't try to turn me down, there's no way your that big and not hungry. Rip needs to eat before he leaves anyway, and it wouldn't do to make another future-Hunter just sit around and wait on him." Rhod took his seat across from Rip and Rip set into picking at his food.

Despite Jock's hopes, there wasn't much else that happened but Rhod sitting and waiting. Rhod wanted to ask him how he chose the Hunters, but took his silence as a sign of irritation.

"Order up!" Jock broke the silence with a boisterous delivery of some over-easy eggs and toast. Rhod ate and chatted with the animated Faunus as he did so. Rip might as well have faded into the wallpaper. They were in the midst of comparing football teams -Jock was a Vale City Royals fan down to the core- when Rip stood up.

Rhod saw him pocket a phone with a stealthy hand gesture disguised as a stretch. Jock wasn't fooled.

"He's texting at the table," Jock shook his head, "Didn't we all teach you better? And look how much you left behind." Rip gave him an easy smile that almost had Rhod fooled.

"Too excited," he said, "let me at those Grimm. Let's retake Mountain Glenn today. Rah, Rah, Rah, go team. I'm not hungry, Jock, but thanks anyway." Jock looked down at him over his heavy-set chin.

"Careful now, slim," he nodded towards Rhod, "don't want to give your new friend the wrong impression."

Bit late for that, Rhod thought. Rip didn't seem so bad, but he did seem awfully ready to be rid of him.

"Honest," Rhod said, standing from his own cleaned plate, "I'll be alright now that I know the right station. King Simon Square and straight up to the airship terminal. Easy to remember."

"You're both going to the same place," Jock said, eyes still on Rip, "and it's only good sense and manners that Rip go with you. Don't argue with Ol' Jock, Rhodizite. It'll be good for you both. Okay?" Rhod nodded and Rip, after a pause, shrugged along with him.

"That's settled then. Don't forget your things. C'mon now, you're burning the afternoon," Rhod grabbed his dufflebags and Rip hefted a rolling suitcase from a spot under the table. A few minutes later found them crossing beneath haunted warehouses on the quiet side of Moreau Island.

They passed a group of Faunus playing dominoes atop an old oil drum. Rhod wondered if they'd have another fight on their hands until one, a man about his size with bear's ears, waved. He turned down the dial on a boombox next to him. None of these young men wore necklaces with teeth.

"I see you, Rip, I see you heading out of here like it's no big thing," he raised up one fist, "you don't forget about us now. Fight the Grimm. Fight the power!" Rip raised his own fist in response and gave the first genuine smile Rhod had seen of him.

"Later Brown," he called back, "don't ever turn that noise down for anybody."

Rhod tried to stay subtle and unnoticed, giving Rip's friend a smile when he couldn't think of anything else. Brown gave him a strange look at first, but then offered a single nod of recognition.

They crossed back over the bridge -the Reunion Bridge Rip called it- and wound up at the Hunters' Memorial platform without further incident. Rip did stop to scowl at the graffitied sign and curse the vandals as 'persistent bastards'.

Rip did not bother to look at the map of Vale City Metro, a rainbow spiderweb full of street names and white dots. They walked past it and Rip slumped onto a bench, pulled out his phone to text, seemingly profiling each incoming train by the sound it made as it passed. Rhod looked around the ugly platform.

"This station looks hoora bad, Rip, nae offense," he said, trying to spark a conversation, "why they call it Hunter's Memorial?" Rip didn't bother glancing up.

"Used to be called Moreau Station, and then Mountain Glenn happened. That's how it got the name," he said, "but when Mountain Glenn happened, no-one wanted to live around here if they didn't have to. Then the Forced Migration happened and nobody lived around here. That's how it got 'hoora' bad." Another train rumbled into the station and Rip stood up.

Rhod simply followed him onto the right car and waited for him to speak more. The awkwardness of it all was killing him. He had to ask him at least one question or he'd go stir-crazy from the silence.

"So," he said, haltingly, "Ah'm awful sorry I made you leave early, mate. Ah didn't mean…" Rip glanced up from his phone, eyes full of a vague pity Rhod didn't care for.

"It's not your fault," Rip sighed, " you got lost and those idiots chased you. Couldn't be helped."

"No," Rhod said, a little peeved, "Ah could've paid better attention. Ah could've let myself walk away, but Ah didnae. Ah might've at least had it out with 'em somewhere else. Ah didnae. That made ye have to jump in to help me. It made yer friend put himself out there to help me. So thanks fer it. And Ah'm sorry Ah put you on the spot. Ah owe you one peaceable breakfast, aye?" Rhod offered an apologetic smile to dot the sentiment.

"No problem," Rip said, staring at him wide-eyed after the little speech.

"Well, barry then," Rhod replied and turned to avoid letting Rip see how embarrassed he felt.

Rip sat up, slid his phone away and seemed to take interest in him for the first time.

"Rhod, I've been rude to you, man, and I'm sorry. Truth is, my…friend and I were going to hang out for a little bit before I went to Beacon and I was kinda pissed we couldn't. But that's not on you, not really, and I don't want you to think that it is. Jeez, this got awkward, huh? Start over?" He gave Rhod a courteous extension of his fist.

"Fine as we are, Rip, and no harm done," Rhod, more used to a handshake, hesitated a moment before forming a fist of his own.

"Cool," Rip said, bumping their knuckles together.

"Hey," Rip said at once, nearly making him jump, "can I ask you something, Rhodizite?"

"Aye," he said, leaning forward, "call me Rhod and ye can ask away."

"How'd you make this decision? Like how'd you know this is how you wanted to spend your life?" Rip's question hit Rhod straight in the heart. He might've been tempted to embellish or play it off or try to convince the lad of some big philosophical code he lived by.

But he'd be lying. And Rhoditzite Henry was proud to say he was the worst liar in the world.

"Well, Rip," he said, "I ain't glad to say it, but Ah'm not sure. Ah guess it sort of all just happened because…well, Ah had other options but none Ah liked! A part of it was a quick choice, too. Ah'm still figuring it all out meself... Honestly, try and ask me again tomorrow."

Rhod was certain Rip would, if not outright laugh, at least fix him with another pitying stare. Instead, the boy smiled at him for the first time.

"Oh yeah? Well then, how 'bout you ask me tomorrow, too?" The answer made Rhod perk up a bit extra in his seat, like it took had taken a few pounds off his shoulders. A metallic voice announced, three times, that King Simon Square was the next stop.

xxx

Editor Note:

All forms of feedback are welcome, so please leave a review if you like. This story will upload new chapters on a weekly basis, so check back next Sunday for an update. Thank you for reading!


	8. Old Dogs, New Meat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Azeban and Hessian take their first steps onto Beacon's campus, Ozpin is treated with an entirely unwelcomed visitor.

Disclaimer: HARQ is a fanwork of the Rooster Teeth Animated Production RWBY. All characters from the original cast of RWBY are owned by Rooster Teeth. 

Special thanks to eliort on DeviantArt.com for their artwork contributions. Thanks to Hector for editing. 

 

xxx

 

As the airship approached its docking station at Beacon, Azeban gave one last longing look out the window. 

“It isn’t fair,” she mumbled, “I think we could’ve seen a little bit of it.” The tantalizing sight of the historic skyline of Vale city mocked her from across the deep, forested valley that separated Beacon from the city proper. Her eyes settled on a pyramid structure she identified as Irep Station, where they’d gotten off their train together. 

The station was a magnificent tribute to the war chieftess Shezmu Irep. A bas-relief of she herself had been the centerpiece of the whole building. Fearsome, tall, and proud, the Faunus woman stood above the platforms. It had been the first thing she saw when the train pulled up. 

And if a train station was that extravagant, Azeban shook with glee at the idea of seeing the Valish royal palace. Hesh had said they might go see it over the weekend if she wanted his company. 

That’s days from now, she thought, and who knows how many weekends I even get here. If I have to leave forever by the end of Spring I want to see all of it.

“Where else could we go after the palace?” She asked Hesh. The boy was frowning at his scroll, oblivious to everything else. 

Hesh scowled at the thirtieth text message his father had sent that morning. ‘Answer your phone’ read the latest one. Those and the half-dozen attempted calls were getting on his nerves. 

Honestly, dad, you’re about to leave, and this is what you’re trying to do? Corvo had insisted that Hesh should focus on getting settled, fed, and comfortable before he tried talking to his father. That suited him fine. He wasn’t looking forward to the call. 

Why can’t you understand that this is what I’m doing? 

“Hesh?” Azeban had stooped down in front of him to meet his eyes. He pocketed his phone quickly. 

“Sorry, uh,” he tried a smile, “certainly there’s Coronation Temple, that’s a good one. What else? Maybe the Bridges over Cleft River?” Azeban searched his face carefully. 

“Are you ok?” she asked. 

“It’s just my dad pestering me that’s all,” he said. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Azeban asked. Hesh shook his head quickly.

He wasn’t going to tell her he was a runaway. Whatever image he’d manage to cultivate to Azeban was what he wanted to stick with. He didn’t want her to be part of the Crane family drama. Even he didn’t want to be part of it. 

“All first-years,” a soft, electronic voice buzzed, “please move to the front of the airship. All first-years, please move to the front of the airship.” Hesh, happy for the distraction, lead Azeban through the crowded gondola. His Scroll vibrated against his thigh as his dad made call number thirty-one. 

They found, not a wall of glass awaiting them, but a large holographic projector showing off a partially 3D news report surrounded sparsely by a few other students. Hesh noted the space left alone by the upperclassmen, far more than they needed to accommodate roughly three dozen first-years. 

“This can’t be it,” he said to Azeban, “this can’t be all of us, can it?” The Faunus girl said nothing, distracted by the wall of light projected before her. Again, the luxuries of the inner-Kingdom life left her speechless. She fought the urge to reach out and touch the anchorwoman that floated in front of her. 

The holograph depicted a flotilla of ships imposed behind her and floating above them was a rendering of Vale’s twin axes. Azeban’s ears swiveled to catch the woman’s voice.

“The Vacuon Parliament’s morning session was interrupted when several members of the Tree-Shade Caretakers began to protest the departure of Vale’s First Fleet to conduct exercises along the Kingdom’s eastern coast. The OTC is an organization that argues for greater unity between the Four Kingdoms, and views the exercises as unnecessarily antagonistic to the Kingdom of Mistral.” The woman’s face remained neutral as she delivered, in a single moment, more information than Azeban had ever really heard regarding world politics.

“I thought the Kingdoms were at peace,” she said as she felt Hesh step into place next to her.

“Well, they haven’t started lobbing bombs at each other, so I guess we still are,” sighed a voice that was deep, feminine and most certainly not her friend’s. Azeban looked left and then up. 

The girl towered above both of them, with light brown skin that bulged with muscle and wavy hair cascading down to her shoulders, so dark and shiny it looked like it was woven from obsidian. A septum-ring hung under a proud nose that gave her sharp face an almost carven look. One thin eyebrow arched over her eyes, each a striking orange color.

“Hello,” Hesh said from Azeban’s right shoulder, “are you a first-year, as well?” 

“Maya,” she said, turning from them to the projector, “and if you hold that face too long, girl, it’s going to stick that way.” She tossed her hair back and Azeban’s eyes widened further at the sight of the tall girl’s ear. There was a gauge earring in her lobe. The thought of the giant hole it was making nauseated her. Her own ears laid flat against her scalp in horror. 

“Ah, hi…” Azeban said, glancing back at the screen. The girl chuckled from the back of her throat. 

“Hah. Yea, still a lot of Faunus who have hang-ups about piercings,” she said, “my mom would love you, she hated it too. Didn’t let me get my nose done until after I tried to do it myself.” Azeban’s mood soured at her words. Intentional or not, she didn't care for humans telling her what all Faunus were like. 

“Maybe not all Faunus do,” she said, frowning. Maya either didn’t hear her or didn’t react. She was watching the anchorwoman. 

“Tree-Shade Caretakers Spokesman Aldus Proverb made a statement outside after the protesters were removed, with one confirmed arrest, by Parliament Security.” A video appeared in the corner of the projection. A swarthy man with a long, white beard spoke into a dozen microphones. 

“Oh, god,” Azeban heard Hesh groan quietly, “him again.” 

“Before our removal,” the Tree-Shade Spokesman said in a steady voice, “we wished to state that it is particularly inappropriate that the new amphibious combat maneuvers this year will be lead by Major-General Towton Lagoon. Major-General Lagoon has yet to be punished for the deaths of three-hundred civilians in the Faunus Rights Revolution that occurred, without proper trial or sufficient cause, in the city of Glass. There are multiple sources, including former military colleagues, who have provided evidence to the Vytali Court of Human Rights. We demand he be held accountable.”

“Coward,” Maya growled at the sound of Lagoon’s name, “murderer.” On the screen, the spokesman waved his hand at the questions pelting him. Next to her, Azeban felt Hesh tense up and his breath go almost silent as the man continued speaking.

“As well,” he started while still waved away questions, “as well, we believe it is inappropriate that these maneuvers are being conducted under the guidance of Brigadier General Gainsboro Crane. Brigadier General Crane has refused to give concrete evidence before the Vytali Court of Human Rights regarding the actions of Valish soldiers during the campaign in the Faunus Rights Revolutions. These actions include; the mutilation of deceased combatants, torture, and the destruction of the village of Driftwood.” 

Aldus Proverb looked straight into the camera as he continued. 

“To these two men, we say that the world cannot fully heal until the actions of the past have been accounted for. Major General Lagoon, face your accusations in court. Brigadier General Crane, do not hide the truth. Not for the dead, who cannot be brought back. Not for the living, who cannot be consoled. But for those yet unborn, who must live in the world we leave behind. We would no more forget or ignore these crimes if they were perpetrated against you. Do the right thing.” 

The image shrunk and Lisa Lavender's stoic face filled the screen. Azeban remembered the image of the ax-bearing warriors in Glaucous Station, a woman with flowing hair among them. 

“Crane,” she said softly.

“Of course,” Maya scoffed, “if Lagoon’s there, his attack-dog can’t be far behind. Gainsboro ‘I Can’t Recall’ Crane. The man who forgot a thousand moments. Just as heartless as Lagoon.”

“Shut-up,” Hesh said, his voice was thin and trembling. Maya and Azeban both turned to him. His grey eyes roiled like twin hurricanes and his fists were clenched so tightly together his knuckles had gone white. “Don’t repeat that tabloid garbage.” 

“I’m only saying what’s true,” Maya said, her voice pitching low, “but if that’s not to your liking, maybe go somewhere else.” Azeban crossed her arms and turned to face Maya fully. 

“He can’t,” she said, “he’s a first-year like me and you. Maybe you should move if that’s not to your liking.” Maya shot her a confused glare. 

“A Faunus? Defending Gainsboro Crane and Towton Lagoon?” Azeban’s ears lowered in anger and she cracked the knuckles of her left hand. 

“I’m not defending anyone. Maybe you haven’t met enough Faunus to really get what we’re like.” She nearly jumped back at the rage that spread across the tall girl’s face. She did when Maya’s hand shot out. 

Maya’s fingers grasped her own tank-top by the left sleeve and rolled it up. Azeban, for a moment, though she was looking at tattoos. It was after a second that she realized what the rosettes of pink skin dotted with black were. Jaguar spots. 

“I guess I know at least half,” she snarled, “what you do.” Azeban hadn’t the faintest idea what to say in that moment. She looked at Maya’s ears. Human. She glanced at her painted fingernails. Human. She looked into her eyes, her human eyes, and saw the pain in them. Her mother wouldn’t let her get her ears pierced. 

“Your parents...” she clapped her hands over her mouth a second too late. Maya rolled her sleeve down. Her rage had gone cold and bitter.

“Aren’t together,” she said, “I think I will go somewhere else.” Maya turned and elbowed her way back into the heart of the gondola. She vanished from sight in the sea of stranger’s faces. 

The hologram changed and a woman named Glynda Goodwitch began to instruct them to the Heime Hall Auditorium. Neither listened very closely to her.

“What was that about? You okay?” Azeban asked. Hessian groped at his phone in his pocket, believing it was ringing again. He was imagining things. 

“Nothing. I don’t even know why I said anything. Sorry about that.” 

A moment later, the airship docked and the doors opened. Azeban and Hesh walked out in silence into the late Summer day.

...

Ozpin's eyes traveled over the students of Beacon Academy. His Academy.

"Your time at this school will teach you that knowledge can only take you so far. It is up to you to take the first step." He finished his opening speech and relinquished the microphone to Dr. Goodwitch. Sidling to the right, he began examining the first-year students where they'd been herded in the front. He did a head count. 36 candidates. 9 teams, if they all managed to pass the initiation.

Not nearly as many as we'd hoped for. He resisted letting the worry show on his face. He needed coffee. He needed coffee with greater frequency these days, and by proxy slept less than he should. 

A line of daylight flashed in at the back of the room and Ozpin’s eyes darted quickly to the spot. The side closed quietly enough that none of the seniors, who sat looking bored or wistful, turned their heads. Either the new occupant was walking with catlike grace, or the class of ‘17 was severely underprepared for graduation in eight months.

Whoever had come into the hall was sticking in the shadows, leaving their intention’s unreadable. Ozpin’s heart-rate began to increase and he shifted his grip on the steel cane in his right hand. He stared hard into the darkness, willing whoever had come in to appear. If they were there. If he wasn’t just losing his mind again. He shut his eyes and began to breathe a bit heavily, unaware that the microphone could pick it up. 

"Oz?" Glynda whispered, the Headmaster forcefully peeled his eyelids open to the stage's searing footlights. The students were staring at him. 

 

"Let's have a wonderful year, shall we?" His invitation was met with stray affirmations from the upperclassmen and uncertain silence from the new students. He could feel Glynda staring at him. A few faculty members, seated away from the student body, shared confused looks among themselves.

From the staff section, Instructor Feral Greystoke finally made his move. The scarred Hunter clapped once, startling the staff surrounding him, then rose from his folding chair and began to address the audience with a voice that boomed, even without a microphone.

"Alright, all Apprentice Hunters clear the floor! Sophomores, Juniors, and Seniors shift your gear and your asses to the dormitories! No dilly-dallying!” He pointed a meaty finger at someone in the crush of people. “That means you too, Dannielle Flowers! Yea, you got taller over the Summer, but not much smarter, huh?" A laugh rippled through the room. Glynda pursued her lips at the instructor’s choice of words, resolving to speak with him later.

"New meat," he growled at the first-years, "pick a patch of floor in the ballroom, get some supper, and take an hour to yourselves. The rest of the day is yours, but tomorrow we're coming for you bright and early! Be ready!" A short woman with a long braid of red hair stood up and pushed Feral to the side. 

“Hunter Greystoke meant to say welcome to Beacon, at some point. My name’s Oakley Gracia.” She thumbed the brim of a battered brown stetson in greeting. “If any of y’all have questions, me and Feral will trade you an answer, if we can. For now, let’s get you all corralled right where you are! Shake hands, say hello, and try to learn each other's names.” 

Ozpin peered past the student body as the double doors opened at the back. He saw a thin man in a pastel white leisure suit. 

York? 

He gave Ozpin a little wave and sauntered outside. Ozpin squinted at the figure, praying to the brothers he really was seeing things. 

…

"I was hoping Instructor Greystoke would be mature enough to at least wait until he was on the stage before he started shouting. But again, I was proven wrong," Glynda sighed as they stepped through the auditorium's back doors. Ozpin adjusted his dark glasses against the late summer sunlight to little effect. 

“He’s at least good with the upperclassmen,” he offered. 

“He should be,” Glynda replied, “he acts like a high school student half the time. But he’s not the best introduction for first-years, Oz.” 

“That’s what we have Huntress Gracia for. Good work getting Oakley in from that search-and-destroy mission down in Rojas, by the way. I’d forgotten how bad the airlines get this time of year.” He was surprised by the sharp look Glynda gave him. She put a hand on his shoulder and lead him off the main path.

“Thank her for canceling weekend plans with her wife, Oz. She’s doing twice the work we should be asking of her, and not saying a word about it. And thank Bard Avon for lending us one of his pilots, as well.” Glynda glanced back over her shoulder and spoke again when she was satisfied no one was in earshot. 

“You had... a moment there in the auditorium,” she said, concern creeping into her voice, “and I wouldn’t need a doctorate in medicine to say you haven’t been sleeping enough. Dr. Humors was right about taking time off. If you’re not feeling well, maybe you should let me handle the bulk of the administrative work. Perhaps take some time to do hands-on lessons with the students. It’ll be good for you.” 

“Better for the school as well?” Ozpin teased. He gave her a smile but Glynda looked contrite. 

“Oz,” she said, “I’m not saying that.” Ozpin shook his head, wincing at how much it was pounding.

“Just trying to lighten the mood, Glynda,” he said, “there was a late arrival to the speech and… it distracted me. But please, no need for all of this ‘time off work’ business either. I wouldn’t dream of taking any time with the students from you.” 

Dr. Goodwitch seemed pleased by that, but Ozpin could see the worry lingering on her face. 

“I am fine, Glynda,” he insisted. 

From the other side of the path, a mocking cackle filled their ears. Glynda’s head turned sharply as the man from the auditorium stepped around to join them. 

"A dollar for every time you’ve said that, Ozzie, and you’d be rich enough to retire!” The man's tone was, like the rest of him, thin, reedy, and dripping with superiority.

“York,” Ozpin said, already eager to see the man leave. 

“Ozpin! How long has it been!?” the man called out, arms in the air. 

“Mr. Duchy,” Glynda jumped in, “why in the world are you here? I specifically asked you to wait for the Professor in his office!” 

York stroked his needlepoint goatee and gave what he might’ve thought was a winning grin. 

Glynda felt her skin crawl as his huge, whitened teeth revealed themselves. Feral had once described York Duchy's whole demeanor as 'in a need of an ass kicking.' Glynda Goodwitch had, for the first time in memory, agreed with him on something.

"Not to worry, Glynda," he threw his arm around the Headmaster's shoulder, "Thought me and this fellow ought to take a stroll around the alma mater before we started talking business." York's blue eyes sparkled as he glanced at Ozpin's cane.

"That is if we don't need to bust his walker out first! Right, Ozzie?" Ozpin stood stock still even as York slapped his shoulder and whinnied in laughter. He caught Glynda quietly bending her clipboard in her hands, making the wood whine.

“Dr. Goodwitch,” Ozpin said, “I’ll escort our guest around campus. Please, see to the students for now.” His eyes carried the rest of his message to her. 

This’ll be painful, but he’ll drag this out even longer with you around. 

“Yeah,” York said, “I’m sure there are some students around here somewhere that might need help tying their shoelaces or something.” 

“Duchy, do not talk to our students,” Glynda snapped, “and don’t bother anyone else, while you’re at it.” Glynda’s heels clicked on the pavement as she made her way towards the main grounds of the campus. 

“Well, fantastic to see you too,” York called after her, “you so rarely hunt anymore, I feel like we’re almost strangers by now!” 

"York, why are you here?" Ozpin asked, growing increasingly frustrated. York ignored him and took exaggerated steps away before motioning for the Headmaster to follow him. Ozpin stared hard at him until Yorked stopped and turned to see Ozpin hadn’t followed. He rolled his eyes. 

"Geez, Ozzie. Thin-skinned as ever," the lanky man whined. The two walked on with Ozpin taking the lead this time. They passed shrubs cut immaculately into knee-high mazes and rose bushes lining the way toward age-old fountains.

"Damn Ozzie, you've kept this campus looking sharp," York said, "though I imagine a smaller campus is easier to care for then say… one the size of Haven." Ozpin admired the work of their grounds staff. Every carefully arranged posy and finely trimmed dwarf maple had a methodical eloquence.

"Perhaps," he said, "though it's a shame Haven can't utilize some of the native plants in Mistral. The Apple trees and Asphodel would look beautiful with your architecture." He smiled to himself as he overlooked the empty benches surrounding their tranquil man-made ponds.

"The students here love to study outside during the warmer months. And in winter, the snowball fights can become truly… what's that word they use? 'Epic'." York yawned and rolled his neck.

"Well, the Haven students need to focus more on their sparring and tracking skills. We're not moonlighting as some liberal arts school. Speaking of, have you seen what they're doing at Spotlight this semester? Abstract sculptures all over the place! Bard needs his head examined!" York’s words disturbed Ozpin.

"What business did you have at Spotlight?" Beacon's sister school in South Vytali was having its orientation day as well.

"Scoping out the competition Ozzie," he chortled, "you know how it is this year." York's beady eyes shrunk with glee at Ozpin's confused stare.

"Don't you? Well gramercy me, Ozzie! The rumors are circulating all over that the Lodge is going to close a school. We're all on the chopping block now, old boy." York drew his hand across his neck and rolled his tongue out with a little 'bleh' noise before giving a snicker.

"I don't waste my time keeping up with idle rumors. No Headmaster should, not that you'd ever know that York." Ozpin glanced around his campus with fresh uncertainty.

He knew that insulting York, easy as it would be, was a waste of his valuable time, and rumors were still only rumors. But York knowing about it meant Headmaster Geat knew about it. And Headmaster Geat never acted unless she was certain.

"Rumors or not, here I am, and what's the harm of me stopping by for a trip down memory lane? Geat hardly needs me around, Ozzie. She's got the student body under her thumb. And if a student steps out of line" York clenched both his hands, smiling as he twisted them in a wringing motion "I grind em' back into shape, and she's satisfied."

York spotted a pair of first-years and smiled like a shark. They were both hoisting along a large, ornate steamer trunk by its ends, trudging along awkwardly before approaching the school’s fountain of Orion to take a break. Ozpin could hear the gears in his brain spinning as he plotted to break them like horses. The thin Hunter gave Ozpin a conspiratorial wink and advanced on them. Ozpin's strangled his cane by its head before following along.

“Thanks again for the hand, Azeban! This thing is much lighter with your help!” the boy called out. The girl smiled big and wide, showing off her strength by using only one arm while inspecting the other.

"What are you kids doing out here!? You both should be in the Auditorium right now!” York said with a tone much meaner and louder than necessary. The boy, shocked by the sudden appearance of his peers, began to shift his trunk off his leg before his company let go of her end, nearly pinching the boy’s toes. York smiled as he held up his palm and motioned for the boy to keep holding it.

"Hmm, looks like a bit more than you can handle, eh kiddo?” The man poked the boy in his arm. “Well, let the burn in your muscles be a lesson the next time you pack." The boy sighed loudly and rolled his right shoulder with a grimace.

"Slowing you down is he?" York asked while giving a studious smirk at the girl.

"Not at all, sir. We’re getting along okay!" Azeban chirped. Ozpin smiled at the display, happy to see friendships forming amongst his students already. That boded well for the team selection tomorrow.

"No hurry? Well, with that kind of attitude, you’ve gone and missed the initiation speech! What a wonderful first step you’ve both started on!" He leaned to the side with his arms folded, watching for their reactions. Azeban winced at his words, smiling over her embarrassment, while the boy’s face briefly filled with horror. Ozpin inserted himself between them, coming to the rescue.

“No need to worry. The speech is mostly a formality, you’ll all be happy to know.” Ozpin said, staring into York’s face. Back down, his eyes said. He turned back to the kids. “Collect your things and head down this main path. Your class is already settling in for the night. Be sure to let our staff know if you don’t already have something to sleep on. We can provide a sleeping bag for tonight.” York scoffed quietly at what the headmaster had said, then stepped past the man and toward the two first-years, who backed up at his advance.

“Make no mistake, you two. Lagging behind like this will get you nowhere at Beacon Academy,” His face darkened further, “and you, young man. Start learning the value of traveling light. Otherwise, you might find yourself six feet under.” The two first-years looked between each other in bewilderment before the boy subtly rolled his eyes and the young lady dared a question.

“Um, sir? How would heavy luggage ever get us killed?” Ozpin pinched the bridge of his nose. The trap had just been sprung. York, without a moment's hesitation, leaned down to their height and stretched out a lanky arm and pointed far down the avenue of the campus, the two teens followed his finger with curious eyes.

"Let's say a Beowulf is barreling down this way at full speed from roughly 100 yards. You'd be in a hurry then, I wager. You'd stop to help him carry his luggage then?" A scowl began to form on the boy's face.

"I'd drop my trunk at that point, sir," he interjected proudly, "I wouldn't make her carry something so useless if a Beowulf was chasing us." 

"Not that he'd even need to," Azeban added, grinning, "I can handle one measly Beowulf all by myself." She placed her fists on her hips and revealed gleaming, sharpened steel on her belt.

"What about two dozen?" York barked, raising his voice by a hair. She frowned and looked upwards in thought before giving him a sheepish grin.

"Well, I suppose I'd need help then, sir. Two dozen Beowulves chasing us? Why would anyone still be carrying a trunk at that point?" Her friendly snickering died down at York's stone face.

"One Grimm is no laughing matter, young lady. Several dozens of them would be much less funny, I think." The girl nodded and her ears folded back. The boy pursed his lips at York and came to her defense.

"Well I'd help her, sir," he said, "and again, I wouldn't want her to help me carry a steamer trunk in the middle of a Grimm attack. We aren’t foolish."

"Excuse me, young man. Are you making fun of me?” York said with faux anger and shock mixed into his tone. The boy recoiled at the accusation. 

“W-what? I mean, no! Not at all!” York was elated at the response but didn’t let it show. 

“I don’t believe I ever asked you, son, if you considered my hypothetical up to your standards.” 

“I just meant-”

“Are you suggesting you’re smarter than me, first-year? You already know what is and isn’t a possibility on the battlefield? If I say a steamer trunk is a danger to you, then you’ll learn to avoid them like the plague!” The boy was floundering now, not sure if digging in or backing down was the right answer. Wouldn’t be long now, York predicted.

 

“I never said I was smarter than you, sir.”

 

“Oh, I’m hearing things then? Is that it?” 

The boy said nothing. 

“Well, a trunk is too unbelievable, is it? Very well, young man. Let's try a hypothetical that's more intelligent, more on your level. Let's say it's you. You never properly considered the weight of your own gear when you prepped for your mission. Now you’ve been crippled, your legs are useless, and you’re about as heavy as a steamer trunk" he scolded, leaning forward even more, "Following me so far, Freshman? How am I doing? Am I still making sense to you? You can't fight, and she can't fight them off alone. What now!?"

"I wouldn't leave him!" the girl called out from the side.

"There you are, young man! She won't leave you behind. She'll risk her life defending you because of your mistake! Is that what you'd want her to do? She should throw away her chance to escape and drag you along like a steamer trunk?" The boy’s face was a blank. 

“No, sir. She should leave me behind in that case. I would fend for myself,” he said evenly. Ozpin grimaced as he watched York smile and nod. The boy had given York exactly what he wanted. 

"York," Ozpin called out, not bothering to hide his anger, "late or not, these two have to get to the ballroom, and I believe you were excited to discuss business of our own, correct?" York leaned out of the two first year's headspace but looked back to eye over his work. From a glance, he could tell the boy was removed of all spunk, with his back straight and nothing to say. He grinned again and patted the boy’s shoulder twice before speaking, this time in a casual tone that made him sound like a completely different person.

"Hey, lighten up, kid! You've got your whole life ahead of you, after all!” Confusion filled the boy’s face, which made York laugh. “Alright, Ozzie. Let's get back to it then." York walked away with a whistle on his lips and the Headmaster lagged behind a moment, hearing the girl hiss under her breath.

"Wow. What an absolute ass." Ozpin turned back to them and caught her gaze. Ozpin couldn't have agreed more after York's little episode, but he had a zero-tolerance policy for sassing peers at his academy: whether towards a Hunter like York or a member of the janitorial staff.

"He is your senior Hunter, young lady," he said unkindly. She gasped and apologized rapidly before trying to explain herself, but Ozpin wasn't fooled. She was only upset because she'd been heard. Ozpin shook his head and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he let out a sigh. 

"We're all a bit worn down from our long trips here, and there is still much work to be done. All I ask is that you keep to your manners as you settle in." He turned to them with his full attention and watched them both more closely. "I'm sorry, I never asked your names."

"Azeban Quin," the girl said while biting her lip. The boy, who'd been glumly staring at his boots, suddenly stood at attention again and gave a crisp greeting.

"Hessian Crane, sir," he said. He hid his nervousness well, but Ozpin could still see the impact of York's words had made. He chided himself for not guiding York away from these two sooner. The damage was done, and doubt had been planted.

"C'mon, Ozzie!" York called. As Hessian looked to the voice, Azeban saw the shadow deepen on her Headmaster's face. She went to her new acquaintance's side and gave him reassuring words.

"Don't listen to that… Senior Hunter, Hessian. We'll be the best Hunters he's ever seen." She looked at Ozpin hopefully. He didn't nod or agree, but he did rest a hand on both of their shoulders before he spoke.

"There's a motto here at Beacon, Mr. Crane: 'Never alone.' Every student who's come through this academy has heard it more than once. Come the Grimm or heavy luggage, we don’t abandon each other here, no exceptions." A smile came to Ozpin’s face without his realizing and he took in the sight of the school. His school.

"Yes. Never alone," he repeated to himself.

"Ozzie!" York called again.

"I'll see you both tomorrow along with your peers. Ms. Quin. Mr. Crane."

"Goodbye, Headmaster Ozpin," Azeban said.

"Sir," Hessian inclined his head and gave a tiny smile. Ozpin walked to York's side like a man walking to his own hanging and was greeted with another one of his colleague's "jokes". He began to fantasize of all the ways he could cause York great suffering and get away with it. I deserve a medal if he survives the next hour.

"Done drying their tears for ‘em?" he asked. 

“That was wholly unnecessary, York!” Ozpin said, full of malice. “And I should remind you that Glynda expressly asked-” 

“Aww, Ozzie! Don’t you know charity work when you see it? I’m giving you a hand is all!” York smiled as he smashed a fist into his other open palm a few times, “Doing a little free discipline work for you. You won’t see those kids late for anything after that, just you wait.” 

They continued towards the base of the main campus tower and stepped into the air-conditioned lobby before he responded. As soon as the door shut behind them, Ozpin spun on him, backed York into a corner, and let his control slip momentarily.

"York, what do you really want, honestly? I have plenty already on my plate, so either tell me why you're here or stop wasting my time and harassing my students." York gave him a coy smile.

"Maybe I came by to see an old friend, huh? How would you feel if I was only here to visit you?" Ozpin's face didn't change as he responded.

"Surprised," Ozpin ejected. 

"Geat would like me to observe your team selection, Ozzie, and see if any students here are Haven material," York said, "and before you get all upset, she sent the request to you directly. Maybe the giantess didn't get it to you?" Glynda hadn’t told him. Or maybe she had, and he’d forgotten. Ozpin used all his willpower to keep his face neutral and his voice from trembling with rage.

"That will not by any means be necessary, York. You can leave immediately if you think I'll…" York's smile dropped from his face and he rolled his eyes.

"I'm ain’t asking, Ozpin," he snapped, then gave an exaggerated sigh. "Frankly, I'd rather be back at a real Hunter's Academy than scrounging around this place for halfway decent warriors. Geat gave me an order and I'm following it. Let's discuss this in your office, I'm sure you still keep some whiskey up there." Ozpin didn't know if it was York's attitude that fueled his anger or the fact that he was right.

"You won't be staying for the selection, York, or Huntsmaster Steadfast will hear about you so flippantly spreading a malicious rumor," Ozpin stated as the elevator shot up the tower's shaft at lightning speed. In the confined metal box, York's laugh was accompanied by the smell of his candied breath.

"Oz, Tin Steadfast will be pissed no matter what. But Huniq Geat will get him on her side because she’s got the right idea. If one of the academies is closing, the students have to go somewhere. Haven is an option." Ozpin didn't like to think of his students going to the old citadel in Mistral. It was a school of hard knocks in a literal sense of the word.

"Hmm, is that Oz the Great and Terrible, stunned to silence at last?" York hummed as an electric ding sounded and the elevator doors sliding open. They stepped into a sparsely decorated office surrounded by glass panes that separated the furniture from giant moving gears.

The steady tick-tock of the great clock outside was a source of peace for the Headmaster and served to annoy unwanted guests. York paid it no mind as he brazenly rummaged through Ozpin's desk and withdrew a bottle of Atlas Cream.

"Terrible stuff." He grimaced after one pull but didn't put it down.

"It's meant to be mixed with coffee," Ozpin said flatly.

"Of course, got to keep up your appearances for the parents," York snorted, "what happened to you, Ozzie? I swear, ever since Mountain Glenn, it's like the curtain's been ripped down. Where you always such a damn softie?"

"York. Stop this. Now." Ozpin was reminded why he had the cane specially made from steel. Anything less would've crumpled in his grip long ago. The lanky man replied in a quiet coo that seemed to dare Ozpin to get angrier.

"Aww, sorry old boy. But you can't tell me what to do anymore, Ozpin," York sighed while shaking his head and took another swig.

Ozpin watched him sip his liquor away as he thought of the man in his memory whose shell was seated at his desk. Ozpin remembered a boy devoid of maliciousness that charmed teachers into giving him a B- instead of C. One who laughed with his friends while explaining every crazy change he'd make once he was Huntsmaster of the Lodge. He remembered when that boy had stammered, red-faced and nervous, as he asked Dot Gingham to the Vytal Dance, and how happy he’d been when she’d casually said yes. 

He’d once had a friend called Yorkie. But repeated failures had turned that skinny and glib teenager into a cruel, rail-thin Hunter mooching on his whiskey.

"York, the friends we lost back at Glen. It changed all of us. It changed me, and it changed you too. Your jokes used to be funny." York didn't look back at his old friend. He kept his stare down on the bottle in his hand, pretending it was more interesting.

"Yea, well, you used to have a backbone. 'Oz the Great and Terrible'. Became a teacher because he was too good for the rest of us lesser mortals.” There was a long silence where York waited for Ozpin to deny it or protest. Ozpin took a calm breath but otherwise stayed silent. 

York finally turned to him. The man looked like he was somewhere between crying and pulling out a pistol. “Well, guess what, Headmaster Ozpin? Another Headmaster wants to take stock of your students in case this miserable school comes down around your ears."

"They don't need the added stress," Ozpin growled.

"I'll stick to the shadows. You have my word. I'll be on my best behavior." York spat back. 

"You'll leave right after. No exceptions." Ozpin scowled and York returned with a hateful glare of his own. There was no hint of that twisted humor or mirth in his face.

"With a spring in my step, Ozzie. Too many bad memories on these manicured lawns of yours." He glanced through the window at a distant gray wasteland on the city's edge. "Too many friends who should be here, but aren't." A moment later, he wiped his face and walked past Ozpin with a sip of whiskey.

"I'll go sleep in one of your dorm rooms. Everyone knows you've got plenty of empty ones this year. Thanks for the drink, Ozzie."

Ozpin stood in the office as the elevator hummed down the tower and away from earshot. He let his cane clatter to the floor before reclining in his desk chair and getting a few fitful hours of sleep.

xxx

 

Editor Note:  
All forms of feedback are welcome, so please leave a review if you like. This story will upload new chapters on a weekly basis, so check back next Sunday for an update. Thank you for reading!


	9. Approaching Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Beacon's newest batch of students chat and make acquaintance with each other, a terrible menace infiltrates their campus grounds.

Disclaimer: HARQ is a fanwork of the Rooster Teeth Animated Production RWBY. All characters from the original cast of RWBY are owned by Rooster Teeth.

Special thanks to eliort on for their artwork contributions. Thanks to Hector for editing.

xxx

Marching across the wet grass of an abandoned forest was a massive, scornful creature. It paid no special attention to the slurping of wet mud around its hooves, or to the forest's branches scraping at its sides. Neither the earth below nor the trees above could make it stumble.

Its elk-shaped body held up a hideous head. Fangs of ranging sizes hid behind its lips and ivory plates armored its snout. Glimmers of moonlight made its orange-red eyes glow like a dying sunset.

Crowning its head was a rack of thick, fearsome antlers that spread out like a bird's flapping wings. Designs of bright red lines coursed like veins across its bony features, marking it as Grimm.

The miles it had crossed that day mattered little and less to it than the uncountable miles it traveled since it first formed. It did not grow weary or pay heed to the changing of day to night. Its life was a long march forward interrupted here and there by blood.

In the dark of the forest, it paused at a squarish stone of carved granite lying on its side. A swirl of memories churned in its mind of mankind and the houses they lived in, the structures they'd built, making Its nostrils work the air and its ears angle in search of noise. Nothing. Nothing human for miles. Nothing. The Grimm began to walk forward once again.

The beast hung its head beneath the weight of its jagged crown. All creatures went silent as it lumbered through the forest. Wolves and foxes crouched to the ground and scurried away in its wake. The birds sank into their nests to hide their eggs and even the lunar moths ceased to fly.

Behind it, a great slithering noise followed. The snake-like Grimm was larger than its Elder, but not nearly as old. Its mind was drawn to the antlered one's like a firefly to a campfire. In the trees above, much smaller minds, even younger, fluttered from branch to branch. All followed, awaiting direction, commands, blood.

The Elder Grimm eyes were focused forward on a blue light blinking through the leaves and shadows of the forest. As the sleepy monster drew closer, the sound of a steady buzzing became clear.

This Grimm was old enough to know the sound. It recalled finding many human creations where the buzzing was loud and unending. It knew of the sound's violent power and how the humans cherished it. It knew that because the Grimm knew that.

It came upon a clearing where man-made walls went for miles, ending at the base of a distant cliff. The walls fenced off a vast portion of forest, standing tall enough to halt even a Goliath. The Elder Grimm felt a familiar rush begin to flow through its body as it listened to the fence hum. Humans are close. Or will be soon.

Nearby were a dozen young Grimm barking and snarling at the barrier. A youngling Beowolf held its snout to the steel wall's massive humming wires while making curious sniffs. It sank its jaw into one and was greeted with a starburst of blue light.

Hot and cold pains tore through its body in a flash. The wolf's jawline froze in place, letting a current of energy flow through him unobstructed. Once the wolfs' faceplate was blackened and its lips were cooked, another burst of sparks tossed it far away onto its side. The older Grimm watched the youngling squirm before dissolving into a black mist.

The Elder Grimm huffed at the structure and didn't hesitate. With a swift motion, it curled its neck downward, aimed the tips of its horns at the wall and rammed them against the wires.

Electric bolts arced between its antlers as they stretched the steel wires forward. White hot pain riveted throughout the beast's body. The monster felt rage build in its gullet as it took a single, slow step towards the agony.

The Beowolves, enraptured by the Elder's presence, watched as the creature pushed against mankind's lightning metals with all its might and being. Its vision disappeared in a fog of electric blue and all noise became the crackling of the Elder's horns as tongues of electric bolts degraded them.

The wires whined in their sockets and the steel frame holding them made a deep groan as it slowly folded beneath the monster's weight. The elder bore its teeth as it took another agonizing step forward.

Its roar could be faintly heard behind the deafening sounds of crackling bolts and tearing steel. The noise of its screams and steel bending blended together and grew higher and higher before they reached their crescendo in a series of sharp snaps.

The smoke settled to reveal the beast on the fence's opposite side. Electricity faded from the Elder Grimm's features, cueing its body to heal itself. The facsimiles of its nerve endings and bone structure folded back to the original shape, and the charcoaled portion of its antlers crumbled away. They swiftly reformed as bone-white spears atop its head.

Before it, the forest held its breath and all things living scattered. Behind it, the Tai Jitsu continued to act as escort, its body smearing away the massive Grimm's tracks as they went along together.

The Beowolves, now tempered and focused, fell in with the two while giving a few barks, forming a ghastly marching line together. They all followed the Elder into the deeper woods, where the faint smells and sights of humanity excited their violent minds.

…

Azeban laid awake in the ballroom for hours. Nightmares of red eyes in the dark of High Crimson had woken her hours ago and deterred her from falling back asleep. She instead stared out a nearby window at the sky, watching it fade from deep blue to the soft sapphire of dawn. The whole time, she'd been thinking about nothing but home.

It felt unfair. Last night she'd been excited beyond belief to get away. Now she couldn't help but miss the little things of her forest.

Azeban didn't regret coming to Beacon, but she didn't know how else to categorize the feeling in her gut. This early, she'd hear her mother's sandals squishing grass as she walked around camp checking the treads on the caterpillar cars and saying 'good morning' to the other families. The thought that she wouldn't hear that for months made her stomach churn.

She slipped from her sleeping bag and tip-toed over the snoozing bodies of her new classmates. Her eyes made the shadowy room bright enough to navigate without stepping on a single toe. She entered the locker room, shuddering at the cool tiles under her feet.

"52…54…53," she dialed the numbers into her new lock and pressed the latch up, then reached behind her duffle bag to retrieved her glaive with care.

Seeing her reflection in the blade made her smile. She thought about fighting Grimm without her grandmother hovering behind her for the first time.

Clasping the grip of her Dawnlander gave her a profound sense of courage. She scanned the locker room once before rising to her feet and assuming a battle stance. With a button press, the Dawnlander extended to its full length.

Up! Left, Right! Down! The blade followed her thoughts and never missed her imagined marks. She chanced a twirl, shortening the blade to clear the lockers and extending once more.

She let the blade kiss the surface of a body mirror bolted to a support pillar, but it left no mark. She smiled at her own accuracy. Azeban paused in front of the mirror and stared at her reflection, breathing evenly, eyes cold and determined.

A shaped moved in the mirror, just above her left shoulder, Azeban turned without thought. A screech ripped the air as her glaive dragged across the mirror's glass, leaving a thick scar. A girl with cropped blonde hair quickly threw her hands up as the blade stopped an inch from her chest.

"Easy, love," she said softly, her eyes flicking between Azeban's face and the sharp steel. Azeban stared at her speechless before she collapsed her weapon.

"That was so stupid of me! I'm so sorry about…" she tapered off at the smile coming to the girl's face.

"Sorry? That was wicked!" she whispered. "You made swinging that thing look easy as breathing!" Azeban's mouth hung slightly open for a second before it became an uncertain smile.

"Thank you," she said meekly, "I've been training with it for years and…I just thought that if I did a little practice I'd… um…I don't know." It felt silly and dangerous all the sudden, twirling her glaive around the locker room like a maniac.

"Get your head on straight?" The blonde girl offered with a grin, her bare feet clapped across the floor as she found her own locker. When Azeban peeked around the taller girl's side, she saw pieces of leather armor neatly arranged inside.

"I was thinking jus' the same thing," she confessed. "Me mum always said the Sabbatarians fight faster than we think!" Azeban's ears swiveled to catch the girl's accented slang.

"Saba-tare-ians?" She awkwardly mumbled.

The blonde girl, who had been stroking the dual-barrel of an enormous revolver, pulled the decorated hammer back and aimed for the ceiling, then squeezed the trigger. The clack of its empty cartridge was deafening, nearly as loud as an ordinary gunshot. When the noise bounced off the tiled walls and into her ears, it made Azeban jump.

"Sorry, love," she said with a shrug, "Xanthous Sabbatarian. Or just Xan, if you like. What's your name, ringtail?"

"Azeban," she said distantly, distracted by the fierce-looking gun. It was large and elaborate, almost the size of a horn, adorned by baroque engravings of leaves that coiled around its barrel and formed an artsy iron-sight.

Xanthous noted her fascination and struck a pose with it. Somehow, even as she stood in her pink pajamas, the brandishing of her mighty revolver struck Azeban with a deep sense of awe.

"Lemme introduce you. This lovely lady's a .50 Cal Helsing," she said with a sigh of affection. "Could rip the wing from a Nevermore mid-flight, provided your aim is on point. I've seen this little dove break a Gargoyle into pieces with seven shots."

Azeban eyed over the weapon briefly. The gun was large and scary but Azeban didn't think it was all that special.

"Gargoyle?" Azbean asked. Xan made a face like she'd spotted a filthy bug.

"Pug-nosed lil' bastards. They like to skulk around in old bell towers and smokestacks," she said, "which we got in spades back home in Foggy! Ever been, ringtail?" Azeban leaned against a locker, adopting a stance she thought looked relaxed and cool.

"No," Azeban said, "I grew up in...outside of Mistral. Grimm are all over the place there, but we don't use guns to fight them very often." Xanthous made a short cackle as she gestured toward the angry cut running sideways through the mirror.

"Yeah, so I gather," she laughed. "No offense, ringtail, but me mum always says guns are the future. A well-aimed hand cannon will take off a Grimm's head easier than any sword." The girl's philosophy made Azeban's eyes practically roll out of her head. Guns were sparsely used in High Crimson, often bringing more attention than they were worth. Bet my glaive has taken more Grimm than any of your guns.

"Your mom is a Hunter?" Azeban asked. She bit her lip and wagered that Foggy, wherever that was, was far enough away from Mistral to chance a little counter-bragging. "I come from a Hunter family too. Well, kind of."

"It's a lovely thing, taking over the family business," Xanthous spoke while she placed her Helsing back in the locker and slammed the door shut.

"I guess," Azeban said tenuously. "I mean, it was expected of me. Where I live, we all need..." Her voice suddenly caught in her throat as she remembered herself. "Uugh, I mean, we have a tradition of sending someone away to become a Hunter. Old family thing." The words stumbled from Azeban's mouth clumsily. Again, it was technically true. She begged that Xan wouldn't read into her stutter, or ask questions. Instead, the girl made a sympathetic grimace.

"Innit grand?" she sneered with a sarcastic voice. "Someone else telling you which way your future is?" The girl shook her head like a disappointed parent. Azeban began to try and tip-toe out of the conversation, but Xan gave a heavy sigh and spoke up again.

"I wanted to go to Haven, ringtail," she groaned, "but me mum insisted I come here instead." She made a cross-eyed face while mimicking a high pitched lecture. 'Beacon's where the Sabbatarians have always gone, Xan!' Apparently, that little tradition rules out any say I have."

"Beacon's a good school," Azeban offered in condolence. "My grandmother said so." Sequoia's words had been a good deal more contextual, but Azeban wasn't telling Xan that.

"Aye? She's the Huntress you're following then," Xan said, "she study here?" Azeban shook her head.

"No...at Haven actually," she said after a thought.

"See? Beacon's many things, but it's not as good as Haven!" Xan shot back. "Haven teaches you the fun stuff without making a group project out of it!"

Azeban didn't know how to counter that exactly. Her Grandmother hadn't ever said a good thing about Haven, but for reasons never fully explained.

There was disappointment there that her grandfather, when he was alive, had only hinted at once or twice. Pesgawan refused to undermine his wife's opinion or let it stand alone, but he was reluctant to tell the story himself. There'd been a night of terrible violence at the end of Sequoia's last year just after her graduation. Something that had to do with the Forced Migration. Whatever it was, it had soured her to the Hunters in general, and ever since, she'd lived in a separate world from them, and all of society for that matter.

"Well, it's a good thing, learning how to work with others. I mean, that's what real life is like." Azeban protested.

"Ugh. You should see the way they drag you down, though! I've had some bad partners before when I went to combat school back in Foggy. Ones who just cling to your heels and never pull their weight. It's criminal! And when you lose points over them…" Xan growled while clutching her hands like a freeloader's neck was between her palms.

"That's the final straw! No thanks, Ozpin. I work best alone," Xan declared. Azeban physically leaned away from the girl's wild outburst. She remembered something Hesh had told her about the school's history.

"Still," Azeban said, "they've been training Hunters here for three hundred years in this place. Isn't that worth something?"

"That means its old, ringtail, not that it's the best choice. This place has been turning into a dump for ages. Didn't you notice how few of us freshmen are here? What do you think that means?" Xan barely waited for a response. "It means the school is on the downturn! They probably won't even replace that mirror you just marked up. Because..." the girl checked her surroundings, then crept over to Azeban's side, leaning in for a whisper, "my mum says they'll be closing a school soon!"

Azeban held her breath.

"In fact, the word is there's a man from Haven here right now," Xan said, a bit excited, "scouting for talented young Hunters. Take my advice, ringtail, put on a good show at the exam today and get in his good graces." The words made Azeban feel a chill run down her neck.

Could it be true? Is Beacon really on the brink? No. Come on, Azeban, how would she even know? Her mom's a hunter, sure, but grandma... well, grandma has barely spoken to the Hunters since she left...

Oh no.

Xan noticed the girl's sudden pause and worried face.

"Hey, you know what? Who cares which school we're going to anyway, huh? We're already luckier than the stars, you know?" She said. Azeban looked back over to Xan with no effort to hide her confusion.

"What?" The girl smiled wide as she continued.

"See, way I figure, we could've been born to any pair of parents on Remnant, but we were born to Hunters. We grew up under them, and now here we are, learning how to be one of them." Xan began to stare into space as she paced like a caged lioness. Azeban started backing up on instinct.

"We'll spend all our lives on a whole other level than those civilians. While everyone else is frittering at some desk, we'll be rolling in glory and having our names written on walls! Nobody's felt a real thrill until they've killed a Grimm stone-dead. Hah, Spitfire! They haven't lived, really. None of 'em." Azeban's eyes went cold and Xan's smile shrank.

"I've known people who've died because of those monsters," Azeban said, "they aren't a game." Xan shrugged, twirling her Helsing on one finger.

"Hmm, 'spose not," she said with a touch of penance in her voice, then she grinned wide again, "but... that doesn't mean you can't have fun fighting them though, does it?" Azeban was about to enumerate just how wrong the girl was when a trickle of sleepy teenagers began to pour through the locker room doors.

"Guess everyone's waking up now," Xanthous sighed. The girl reached into her locker and unfurled a massive hat, brim wide enough to mask half her face. Her cocky grin peaked out from under it along with half her nose. "We'll have to continue this talk later, once this whole testing nonsense is done." She busied herself gathering up the armor and gear from her locker. "Let's just hope they throw something big at us, right? I'd love to see a Tai Jitsu for the first time!"

Xan stopped on her way to the door and spun around, pointing a couple of fingers at Azeban shaped like a gun and mimed out firing them at her. "Keep an eye open for me while we're out there! Great minds need to stick together, and all that." She gave Azeban a wink while shouldering the door open.

Azeban used the locker's door to hide her face, not bothering with an answer. Though she was glad their talk was finally over, the conversation replayed in her head, and Xan's final point began to grind her nerves thin.

Beacon was closing. Maybe. Or maybe Xan was an arrogant airhead who knew as much about that as she did fighting Grimm. The girl had seemed so detached from all of the things going on around her. She'd talked about schools, Hunter schools, like it mattered if you graduated from one or the other.

In High Crimson what mattered was if you fought at all. It was that or die. She grabbed her things and tried to storm off.

She nearly knocked a phone loose from a boy sitting down beside her, who gave her a frown before switching it on.

You Up? The text bubble hovered on the screen of his Papyrus as a response came back. Rip gazed at the contact name above their last conversation: Roe. He began to type a follow up when a response cut him off.

Are you?!

Rip smiled and ran his thumb across the touch screen, the phone clicking softly as he keyed in his answer.

Can't sleep. Miss you too much. 3

It hasn't even been a day, Rip. Rip could imagine a pair of pretty green eyes rolling underneath soft tan eyebrows. He teased Roe further.

Every minute away from you is like an eternity on a bleak, gray shore. Each rush of the sea wind whispering…"sup, boo?" Rip took a seat on one of the wooden benches and crossed his legs, rereading his work as he waited for a response.

You're a smartass.

So you do admit that I am smart? ;) Roe completely ignored him, but Rip could predict he'd made him smile anyway.

You get a roommate yet?

No. They've got something cooked up for us today. Its weird. Ms Oakley (that's this teacher we met) told us she'd get us later this morning. We all had a big slumber party in the ballroom last night. Rip flexed his toes and yawned.

Is it, like, going to be dangerous or something? Rip saw the question and thought carefully. Lying to Roe always felt wrong, but he worried just as much what would happen if he simply said he was going to be fighting Grimm.

It'll be fine, Roe. I got teachers watching me so closely, they may as well saddle up my ass. I'll text you right after. Rip didn't bother to tell him that there were only two or three of those teachers that he'd seen so far.

You doing ok? Rip stared at the text for a minute and typed in an answer.

Its ritzy and everyone here has never met each other before how do you- He deleted it and began again. So far I know one dude from Atlas without really talking to him- Delete.

Fine. He made the sound of a deflating balloon as he hit send.

Rip…please give it a shot. It's not like you're in prison or anything. You can leave if you want. Rip grumbled and typed without thinking.

Tell that to Bolad Zi.

And who would I say I was, exactly? Or did you finally say something about me, Mr. Ripper? He flushed at the use of his pet name. Roe could bend any conversation around to make this tired point applicable.

Nope nope nope. Not doing this rn. Focusing on today. A-hunting we go. Rip grinned impishly. Hey, I know what'll cheer you up. It'll take me a while to get to your house, wanna meet halfway in a motel again?

Roe's reply followed quickly, without hesitation.

I hate you so much.

Rip saw the words but took no offense. Roe loved to be flirted with, even when it derailed the conversation. It was a golden gun all his own.

Hate with a passion, babe.

Ok, this is getting ridiculous and I have work soon so I'll just say it. I got promoted. Rip's eyebrows shot up as the news purified his thoughts of mischief.

He felt tempted to call, perhaps just to hear Roe's voice, but the amount of open ears around him was steadily increasing.

Congrats, Roe. You deserve it. And here I always said Sequin was a frigid bitch.

Oh she's totally still a frigid bitch but now I've been moved up to actually working the floor. I guess she realized most people can stand seeing a Faunus working in a boutique.

That's my Roe, Rip texted back, erasing the social lines, making history. I can see the movie version of your biography already. I bet they'll write me out ;P

I wouldn't let them, Ripper. 3

My hero. Rip stood up, feeling ready to take on the world.

Chat later, babe. Gotta show these drips how your ripper goes to work. Good luck at the boutique. So proud of you. A series of hearts were sent in reply before Rip set his phone aside and opened his locker.

He set about exchanging his pajamas for a purple long sleeved t-shirt, some loose fitting sweats, and his trusty red trainers. Around his exposed forearms and ankles, he carefully wound white boxing tape. Over both, he slipped on some scuffed pieces of black armor.

Then he slid on his fingerless gauntlets.

In Jia, an antique language, they spelled out the words Yihequan on the back of his hands. He watched light play across shining metal balls on each knuckled. Before Hunters walked the world, the monasteries in the Steppes trained rigorously in Dust-based combat to defend the world against the Grimm.

But they were gone, and he was a strange vision of their legacy, their lessons passed down to him by an old lady in her flower store just off Market Street.

He turned to the locker and put away his garments, then paused when he saw a small wooden box at the back he hadn't put there the day before.

Bolad Zi had visited sometime in the night. She must have. He took the box out of the locker and opened it. There was a folded bit of construction paper inside. He opened it.

A collage of signatures from the orphanage kids were above a picture of a skinny stick figure in purple, who was kicking a frowny-faced Beowulf. Violence shouldn't be this adorable, he thought.

Two notes stood out in neat, adult handwriting. Vert's was short and to the point. Give 'em hell, Rip! Miriam's note was a much longer, predictably.

I know how homesick you must be feeling, Rip, and I want you to know that if I seemed distant at the soup kitchen today, I'll burst into tears once the rush is over.

Rip's smile shrank and guilt started to gnaw at him as the note continued. He wouldn't have noticed a bomb going off as he read her words.

We all really pushed you towards this: me, Vert, and Bolad. I just want you to know that we're proud of you no matter what you choose. I know I'll worry about you at that school, I just won't be able to help myself, but there's no one in the world who'd make me feel safer than you. A Hunter with a heart like yours is what this world needs right now. If that's what you choose, we'll always support you.

\- Miriam Coal.

Rip folded the paper against his chest and looked into the box once more. A dried desert flower was fit snugly next to a familiar bundle of purple cloth. His training bandana had been left with Bolad at her shop. On it was a short yet comforting note.

Forgive me for leaving this without a word, but you needed rest. I've taught you all I can in the time we had but you must learn much more without me. Keep your shoulders loose.

No signature was given, or needed.

He picked up his bandana and gasped as four small vials unraveled themselves from the cloth. They were plexiglass containers for rounds of dust, made for reuse, one for each gauntlet. They had been inscribed with the Jia symbols for Thunder and Lightning.

He marveled at them. Never had he owned anything so pretty and new. Dust, particularly combat dust, was an expensive luxury he'd only ever seen through a display box. A few vials to start with would be a load off his mind, financially. To have them personalized was an expense beyond his imagining.

He slipped a leather belt with dust holders out of his locker and secured the glass vials into them carefully, then finished dressing by wrapping the bandana around his forehead and pulling it tight. He took a glance in the nearby mirror and smiled.

Just give it a shot, he thought to himself. He picked up his Papyrus and took a picture of himself, sending it to Roe without text to explain.

As he emerged from the locker room, he saw the rest of the first years rising, if not exactly shining, from their sleeping bags. He made his way back to the far corner of the room, beneath a large painting, and found Rhod was not alone. The large Atlasian was being chattered at by a girl Rip had seen from a distance yesterday.

"A'right," Rhod was rolling up his sleeping bag, "the oldies are hoora big an' scary, Ah get tha'. Yer tellin' me they're mair canny, as well?" The girl nodded, her short locks dancing around her chin. She had a tan and wide, green eyes that seemed to sparkle. She sat cross-legged, leaning forward eagerly as she responded.

"Smarter by default for sure," she said, "more dangerous with other Grimm around. I guess if another Elder showed up, they might get even smarter. But when there's a lot of Grimm in general, older or younger, they all act smarter come elder or not."

"In a pinch," Rip interjected, "just remember that they're the opposite of people." He threw Rhod a wink and was surprised, but pleased, to hear the girl snicker. Rhod looked up.

"Bloody stars, Rip. Hoora badarse!" Rhod's face split into a grin as he gave his companion a good slap on the back. Rip spun in place once, showing off his battle dress.

"Rhod told me all about your fight, Rip! How quick you were, like a flash of light! That was really something special of you, seeing someone in danger and just... y'know, acting! Like a real Huntsmen would! You haven't even done the test here yet, and you're acting like a Huntsmen would, and you didn't even know who he was, but you rescued him, and now you two..." the girl seemed to hum with excitement for a pause, "You're buddies!" she finally called out.

Rip frowned and held back a sarcastic remark. He never felt right turning the combat arts he'd learned on people. Then again, he hadn't told Rhod not to say anything. Best not make things weird.

"Barely a fight. But thanks anyway. Now, you know my name and the last fight I got into. I don't even know what to call you." The girl shot up to her feet and grabbed Rip's hand in an energetic handshake.

"Ohlone Falc, of Meander, Minami River, Mistral," she said all at once. Rip smiled and gently took his hand back.

"Rip, of East End, Vale City, Vale," he said, "what were you two talking about just now? Grimm?" Ohlone dove into a bright pink backpack that sat nearby and emerged with a paperback copy of Abominable Power: Modern Theories on the Grimm.

"Tamien -that's my older sister- got me this book when I was, like, twelve and I've read it probably a dozen times. I was telling Rhod about STCB, the Shared Tactical Communications Brainwave." Rip tried not to tell her to slow down.

"Uh, I thought you were talking about Pandemonium," Rip offered. Rhod made a noise of recognition.

"Ah! Pandemonium! Aye, tha' Ah ken. Big Grimm leads little Grimm. Aye, lass, Ah didnae ken ya meant that." Ohlone's smile didn't fall but Rip could see it become a tad more strained. She drummed her fingers on the book.

"Wellll," she said, "I mean, yeah, of course that's one word. Lupe Derryo didn't think it fit right. Here, I'll just read it to you." Rip was about to suggest, in the politest way possible, that he didn't want her to do that at all, but Ohlone was too quick. The page was vibrant with highlighters of every shade. She placed a finger on one block of pink and began to read.

"'Pandemonium has too often been simplified by the old-world perception of Grimm as animals enticed by sinful thoughts or feelings of grief. An Alpha or Elder, both equally problematic terms when discussing the Grimm, do not serve or take commands from a pack-leader in any distinguishable way. It is better to understand the Grimm as a single mind forming a great spiderweb of thoughts reaching across the globe, rather than a hundred smaller minds. If so-called 'Elders' or 'Alphas' hold any special distinction, it could simply be that they act as a sort of 'amplifier' of senses, heightening the horde's connection to their network of information. Their presence in larger groups of well-ordered Grimm are not, as many have thought for centuries, the cause of these formations but in fact a mere catalyst of their growth. Their destruction wreaks havoc amongst the Grimm but does not, as anything has to be observed capable, send them in the type of full breakdown most leaderless human armies might experience.'" Ohlone seemed to imbue every word with her imagined personality of the author. She closed the book and beamed at the two boys.

Rhod had been listening carefully but, as he wasn't sure what more he could add, merely nodded and gave a thumbs up before he resumed packing. Rip's eyes had wandered onto the tall painting behind Ohlone and when he realized she was staring at him he gave her a small smile.

"Awesome," he said, "I might just say Pandemonium though. Old habit from my teacher."

"Oh ok, who was your teacher?" Ohlone said.

"An old Huntress," he said, trying to avoid the conversation. Bolad Zi was a private woman and he wasn't used to this much prying himself. The look of awe that passed over Ohlone's face had him look for anything else to focus her on.

"Wow," she whispered, "you were trained by a real-life Huntress? No wonder you're so good!" Rip nodded and nearly winced when Rhod chimed in.

"Ah didnae know tha', Rip," he said, "must've killed hoora Grimm by now, aye?"

"Oh, boy, I bet he's killed a bunch!" Ohlone said. Rip shook his head, hands raised almost desperately.

"Guys, come on," he said, throwing in a laugh, "I haven't even seen a Grimm. My master hasn't fought one in years, I think." If Rip thought that would kill Ohlone's interest, her confused but no less curious face, made him think otherwise.

"Hang on," she said, "how can someone be a Huntress and not fight Grimm?" Rip's awkward embarrassment melted away in an instant, leaving only a steeliness that hardened his look.

"She's retired," he said, voice firm.

"I don't think Hunters can…" Ohlone began and found herself cut off by Rip's stare. The girl seemed to wilt like a flower.

"Sorry," Ohlone said, her voice small and contrite, "I shouldn't be so nosy. Or blather so much. Its a bad habit I have. I didn't mean to say anything... insulting. I'll leave you guys alone." The defeated, flat way she said it made Rip realize this was far from the first time the girl had said something like this. He suddenly felt like an ass.

"It's alright," Rip said, "just, I'm tired and cranky 'cause it's so early in the morning. My teacher was a Huntress. She got injured. She couldn't really hunt anymore so...y'know...she retired." Ohlone nodded, a little smile coming back to her face.

"I see," she said, "thanks for sharing that with me. Sorry, I meant to say I'm sorry she got hurt. But...wow, I still can't imagine being trained by a Huntress! I've read every book about them, not just the schlocky ones either -but those ones are great- I've also read the real stuff." She held out her book, looking dreamily at it. "They're basically the only thing from old legends that are true." She looked up at the painting. A blonde haired man in a green tabard lifted a giant horn to his lips.

She recognized the figure as if she were from Vale herself. Heime the Horn-Blower was, according to legend, one of three hundred heroes that fought at the side of Orion against Scorpio, an titanic sized Grimm. Heime's horn had drawn the beast into the desert valley where they jumped it. That valley would then be the very spot they'd build the Hunter's Lodge, and found the Huntsmen's Order.

"But...getting to train under a real Huntress...I...what's she like? Can I ask that? I've only, really, briefly met a Hunter before. I haven't killed Grimm either, but I see them sometimes on the outskirts of Meander where my sister worked. Whenever the Hunters came by, I'd always cry to my sister because I thought for sure they'd all die. The Grimm were so terrible to look at. I know, its silly, people have been killing Grimm forever. Hunters have been around forever. But...anytime our town could've been lost, there was always one who came when we called for help. They're amazing."

"Aye," said Rhod, rising to his full height, "Cordy Carpenter saved me town an' me friends. Most o'us. Not a nice fella, but a savior all the same."

"She is," Rip said, smiling. Ohone looked at him as if coming out of a daydream.

"Who?" she asked. Rip thought of the little woman in her flower shop.

"Bolad Zi," Rip said, "that's her name." Ohlone grinned and looked back up at the painting of Heime. She turned as if to ask another question when the great doors to Beacon's hallways opened inward. The three youngster turned and were surprised to find Glynda Goodwitch framed in the doorway, Oakley and Feral nowhere to be seen.

"Good morning, everyone," she looked over the assembled children with a mild tenseness, "I see some of you are already dressed in your battle gear. That's good. Please, take your time packing up and dressing, then make your way over to Quartermaine Hall for breakfast. Otherwise, try to stay together here in the ball-room until we assemble you for the Selection Test." A ripple ran through the crowd at that, but Dr. Goodwitch said no more and left before anyone could ask a question.

"Ya figure," said Rhod, "tha' them two from the other day are busy?" Rip shook his head.

"I guess we'll find out, big guy," he said, "but maybe, for now, we focus on breakfast. Ohlone, you in?" The red-haired girl shook her head, smiling apologetically.

"I'll catch up with you guys. I need to get into my gear and limber up my arms a little," she shrugged, "and maybe do some practice shots with my bow before we launch. Plus, eating before stuff like this just makes me queasy. I'd throw up." She said this all in her usual rapid way and flushed scarlet after she realized all she'd said.

"I talk too much," she said, scurrying away quickly. Rip and Rhod, to avoid making things any worse, held back their laughter. Rip, squinting a little as the girl walked off, turned his attention to Rhod.

"Wait. Did she say... launch?"

...

"You know Oakley? Sometimes, I just want my day to go by without a hitch." Feral Greystoke rubbed the simple gold earring in his left lobe as he examined the remains of the perimeter fence.

"Then why the hell did you become a hunter?" she said. He didn't acknowledge her comeback, instead busying himself with checking their surroundings for tracks. Oakley watched him examine the scene before she spoke up again.

"How many is it, Feral?" she asked as she shifted her rifle atop her folded arms. The Hunter took another cursory glance over the prints in the bare, ripped up rearth. He saw telltale signs of Beowulf claws ripping through soil and Ursa paws squishing down the earth.

"A dozen beowolves. At least one Ursa. Maybe… five Borbatusk. But then, that's just on the surface. If enough Grimm have been trickling in through here…" he let the words dangle. Oakley tapped her boot heel on the ground rhythmically as she considered their options.

"But just one Tai-Jitsu, yeah?" Oakley scowled at the wide, deep rut that formed the base of the Grimm tracks that cut into the Emerald Forest. A great serpent was loose in their forest and had slithered gods-knew-where in the night. Thankfully, by the size of the tracks, it would be young. Dangerous, but not quite so dangerous as a fully grown King would be.

"Hell, if there were more than that, we'd know. Let's call this in," her look was calm but Feral had known her long enough to detect the trace of anxiety in it. Feral couldn't ignore the feeling in his gut either; the broken fence boded ill for the team selection that morning.

"Ozpin will need one tall cup of 'coffee' when he hears this," Oakley sighed. "Anything bigger than our baby snake? Anything at all?" She paced along the breach in the fence wire and squinted into the distance.

"Not that I can tell," Feral began, "it seems like it was just the little bastards. Though if you'd kindly not step there!" His words jumped into a shout as the tip of her boot tread into his line of sight, she offered him a sour look.

"We need a rain check on this selection, Feral," she said, "that is, if you really just can't figure out what could have gotten in…" Feral shot up, his fists clenched tight.

"Damnation, Oakley! You pacing and running your mouth won't help me figure anything out. Look, it's a Tai-Jistu. I know that. A big bastard like that could've taken the punishment to rip the fence and slither off. It's probably on its last leg if it did. Now stop pecking at me and call it in."

"It's not the only kind that could, Feral," she huffed. Feral shut his eyes and massaged his lids as he sighed heavily, waiting for the irritation to leave his system. Another pause of silence went by before Oakley's mouth reopened.

"And it's sending a chill up my spine, thinking what else might've done this," Oakley took in the fence once more, "if a herd of Beowolves bunched up against those wires they'd be barbecued in minutes. A Tai-jitsu, baby or not, that's a real monster." She set her rifle down butte first, keeping her left hand steady on the barrel. She needed a cigarette.

Oakley racked her brain for anything else powerful enough to shrug off an electric current and force its way through steel; none of the suspects were good. She scrounged through the pocket of her pants and withdrew a pack of Deadwood Specials.

Feral cocked his head at the sound of her tapping out a single cigarette against her thigh. He looked up in time to see her place it between her lips and hold a worn gold lighter to the end as she took a drag. Oakley sighed out the first puff of smoke and let her head fall back for a moment.

"Glynda would be pissed if she caught you smoking," Feral said and knelt back down to the plethora of Grimm tracks, his good eye carefully tracing every shape.

"You see her hiding in a bush somewhere, let me know." She inhaled in a long draw that decapitated her cigarette before she tapped ash onto the forest floor while paying no mind to Feral's tracking.

"Slippery little turd isn't going near the selection, Oakley," he said, "least he didn't take off that direction. Hear me?"

"Yes, Feral," she took a long drag and collected her thoughts, "I won't insult you by questioning how well you understand Grimm. So would you back me up if I tried to get Ozpin to call it off?"

"What?" he asked, half-listening. He followed ruts in an oak tree up past branches bent to their limit, some snapped off from tension. That made him frown. The Tai-Jitsu was long and wide but, unless it reared up, not much taller than five feet. The branches had to be at least nine feet off the ground.

"Feral, can you answer me," she snapped, "we should be together on this before we tell Ozpin."

Seeing Feral stare at the treetops, she rolled her eyes. "And by the way, I can see you're picking up a trail right now, so spit it out. What is it?"

"These branches have been bent back," Feral said pointing upwards.

"Your point is?" Oakley said around her cigarette.

"Bent. Not shredded or cracked off from force. You're the techie, the wires weren't cut up, were they? They were pulled outa there sockets." Oakley scanned the trees and felt the forest closing in on her all the sudden. The wires hadn't been cut, they'd been snapped like guitar strings tuned too tight.

"It didn't charge through or bite them loose," she said, "son of bitch just pushed against the fence until the wires snapped."

"Maybe our Tai-Jitsu friend got tangled, started flailing, pulled himself out." Feral said, "and the tree might just be strong wind, or at most, little bastards like the Imps we got infesting this place."

"But you're not convinced that happened, are you Feral?" Oakley asked. A sharp ringing caused them both to jump and deploy their favorite swears. Feral fumbled with his phone.

"Feral," Ozpin said, voice distant over the phone, "how bad is it?" Feral wasted no time in relaying the state of the fence. With every word, Ozpin gave no reply and made no sounds.

"Baby Tai-Jitsu. Maybe a thirty-five-footer. Busted up the fence and let in a few other nasties." Ozpin chewed on the numbers as Feral relayed them and said nothing for a while.

"Oz, Oakley thinks we should shut it down," his eyes flicked to her and after a moment he continued, "and I'm in agreement. If anything else slipped in and we don't know what it was, we can't guarantee a safe selection." On the other end, Glynda was staring into Ozpin's eyes asking if she'd just heard Feral correctly.

The man said nothing, imagining a snakelike grin on York's face as he leads away young Hunters from the campus. He imagined the face of their Guild master in the Scorpion Valley as the news was relayed to him; news that Beacon had the fewest students this year AND a compromise in security.

"Oz? Are you still there?" The sound finally snapped him loose and he began to murmur a reply.

"In that case, please secure the fence and sweep the forest for whatever it is."

Feral could imagine the screaming match if Oakley had called though he felt close to shouting at Ozpin himself.

"Headmaster, if it was only more Ursa or Beowolves out here I'd be with you," he ignored Oakley's furious look, "but this thing went right through the fence and now it's roaming our woods."

"I understand your concern Feral," Ozpin didn't raise his voice, but the irritation became pronounced in each syllable, "but circumstances are more complicated than normal this year." He inhaled deeply and continued. "You have a little over two hours before they launch. I trust you and Oakley's talent. You can follow the tracks and neutralize all and any threats."

"The baby snake, yeah, I wager we can but-" Ozpin spoke over him.

"Let Oakley know what I've told you and sort this out. Call me back if you have a guess as to where it is. We can proceed from there." Feral looked over to Oakley, who had wandered a few paces away to smoke in peace. Ozpin continued. "I don't have to tell you to keep this quiet, do I?" Feral placed his hand on a tree trunk and gripped it tight, cracking the bark with his considerable strength.

"We can't even give them a warning, Ozpin? They're going into this blind?" Whatever Ozpin would've said was canceled by a sharp whistle that rang from Oakley's lips.

A line of black shapes was emerging from the woods through the broken fence, crawling out to reveal themselves as Beowolves. Oakley grit her teeth, took aim and fired. The closest Grimm's head vanished in a burst of flame.

"Ozpin. Something's come up. We'll… call you back." Feral said, drawing a chain from his waist and readying the large hook at its end. Another target fell as Oakley's rifle barked again.

"Contain that too." Ozpin said. Click.

xxx

Editor Note:

All forms of feedback are welcome, so please leave a review if you like. This story will upload new chapters on a weekly basis, so check back next Sunday for an update. Thank you for reading!


	10. Test of Mettle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the entrance test for Beacon begins, Azeban meets up with students both familiar and new, before they all have a sobering encounter with danger.

Disclaimer: HARQ is a fanwork of the Rooster Teeth Animated Production RWBY. All characters from the original cast of RWBY are owned by Rooster Teeth.

Special thanks to eliort on for their artwork contributions. Thanks to Hector for editing.

ANNOUNCEMENT - To all our regular readers, we give our sincerest thanks for keeping up with HARQ thus far! Homer will be taking off next week while traveling out of state, so our next update won't be until 6/23/19. One other thing to note is that the first four chapters after the prologue, (H,A,R,Q) will be migrating out of this story and into their own separate story titled "HARQ: Trailers". We've received feedback saying these opening chapters are upsetting the story's pacing, and the two of us agree that putting them somewhere else will help the narrative move along faster for new readers. Changes will also be made to Chance Encounters and First Impressions to compensate for the loss of the 'trailer chapters', but these will be small changes that give information only new readers wouldn't know if they didn't read H-Q, so don't feel the need to re-read anything. Again, we thank you for reading thus far and will see you in two weeks!

xxx

The cliffs reminded Hesh of home. Everything seemed to remind of home, suddenly. Around him, the other first-years were preparing themselves for the coming test. Some stretched their limbs while others took practice swings at the air. Hesh, as he looked out over the trees, had been swinging his right arm in wide arcs to loosen up his shoulder.

He tightened and untightened his belt anxiously. One minute he was worried it would fall around his ankles but then he'd nearly make himself sick by cinching it too much. No amount of pressure seemed to calm him, and for the moment he left it hanging a little loose around his middle.

He managed to stop himself from rechecking his docker's clutch for the fourth time, where his pistol was holstered, or fussing with the combat knife sheathed on his right boot. Instead he focused on the trees.

The forest was no less impressive than it had been from the airship, but without a barrier of glass its presence was greater.

"See anything interesting?" his head turned to the voice. Azeban's grin displayed a pair of pronounced canines. Without her crimson shaw, Hesh could see how she managed to carry his trunk so easily.

Her arms were earthy brown bands of muscle squeezed by girded leather vambraces. Her loose pants had been traded in for a pair of red denims. She had a pair of weathered boots on with metal cleats strapped on them. On her torso, she wore a high-necked jerkin of soft maroon. A red wrap of cloth around her neck, bundled up tightly, stood out to him.

He hoped he didn't look too odd in his own gear. Gray boots, pants, and cuirass protected the young man's body, interrupted only by his shoulder guard, a stripe of dark blue going across his chest and resting by his neck. The Final Word's sheath broke the pattern with a startling splash of red.

"The trees are so thick," Hesh said, not sure what else to talk about, "I can barely see past the canopy."

"It's a beautiful forest," Azeban said, "not as big as...ones near where I live. But still nice. Plus, the trees are close together," Azeban added with a giddy grin, "so it'll be a cinch to move around the way I do." She tapped her cleats on the ground once for emphasis.

"It'll be all new stuff for me. Forests at the Salt Cliffs never get this dense," Hesh mumbled. "Everything is made of ugly little trees, bushes really, in swampy marshlands. Not a pretty sight." Azeban looked up and studied his face. He seemed to be looking further off than the forest, searching the horizon.

"You're homesick aren't you?" she said. Hesh kept his gaze fixed on the distance so she wouldn't catch his reaction. He needed to bury it all today if he was going into battle: the anxiety, the anger, and the specter of guilt that had hovered behind him since he'd boarded his train a night ago.

"I...yes, exactly right. I'm homesick," he said.

"It's normal to feel that way, Hessian," she went on, "I was just thinking to myself this morning that I miss the sound of my mom yawning. Isn't that strange?" She began to draw a redwood into a patch of dry dirt.

"Your mom's yawning?" Hesh asked.

"I mean, every morning she gets up earlier than me and the rest of my brothers to check in with the other families or get a head start on things. She always lets out this same great big yawn. Real loud at first, and it has three tones each time. Isn't that weird?" She moved her hair out of her face and imitated it for Hesh, but he didn't laugh. His focus remained fixed on nothing in particular.

"Yes," he said, quietly, "I suppose you're right." Hesh started to realize he did miss things like that. Around this time of the morning, he and his father -and Corvo, on some occasions- would be returning from an early morning ride on their horses along the Cliffs. The rainstorm last night would've cooled the coast considerably, making the wind feel pleasant as it blew past them.

"Anyway," she spoke as she finished her picture, "all I mean is that missing home is…well you get it. By the way, what do your parents do, Hesh?" He finally turned to face her.

"My mom works for the Lapidary Institute. She studies Dust-cutting techniques." Hesh smiled and puffed out his chest when Azeban looked satisfactorily interested. "You know the teardrop cut that most water Dust crystals are shaped by, of course?

Azeban, who'd never even seen a water Dust crystal teardrop or otherwise, nodded politely.

"My mother's team found that an inclusion added to the teardrop cut activates the gem in a very minute way. The gemstone fills with water without overflowing. A gem filled with the water. The way it catches light is breathtaking." Azeban tried to envision it.

"That makes it more useful in a fight?" she asked. She couldn't imagine how unless some Grimm were distracted by shiny objects. Hesh shook his head, smiling uncertainty.

"No, of course not," he said, "but it's taken the fashion world by storm. Or it did. That was a decade ago, obviously, some tastes have changed since then." Azeban, trying not to ponder how valuable a single water crystal might be to her whole family, tried to look impressed.

"Cool," she said, "so does your dad work with Dust as well?" Hesh frowned and briefly considered telling Azeban who his father was. She'd stuck up for him when Maya had insulted his father the day before, albeit unknowingly. Azeban's trusting demeanor made it hard to lie and Hesh was already bad at lying.

"He's…" he began, but was distracted by movement over Azeban's shoulder. Maya had walked to the cliff's edge a few yards away. She was dressed in the same black shirt and fatigues she wore the day before, orange gauntlets protected her hands. The short grip of an immense sword sheathed peeked over her shoulder. The girl surveyed the forest and caught sight of him for a moment. She scowled, then donned an orange half-helm painted like a jaguar and walked off.

"He's?" Azeban asked, not realizing what had distracted him. He wouldn't lie about his father's history with the war, but he still feared Azeban's reaction. So he told half of the truth and burned with shame inside.

"A soldier," Hesh finally said, "he fought in the war in Menagerie." Azeban didn't react at first, but the thought slowly made more and more sense to her.

"So...yesterday when that girl was ragging on those two generals...Wow. Sorry Hesh. I've never met a human who fought in the war. I mean, I still haven't, I guess, but…" Azeban fixed him with a careful look, void of any suspicion or disgust, but instead filled with a deep curiosity. She wondered if she could trust him with a secret.

"Hesh," she said, "do you know about a place called High Crimson?" Hesh thought for a long minute and then his eyes lit up.

"Oh! Yes. It's a redwood forest in Mistral. Correct? Why? Do you live near it?" Azeban realized as he spoke that she didn't want to tell him. He didn't know and maybe that would be for the best.

What would I say even if he was fine with it? 'By the way, that means I won't be here next year, please don't tell anybody else'?

"No," she said suddenly, "I'd only heard of it before and wondered if it was anything like this one. I grew up near a forest but not that one. Definitely not." Hesh, understandably, seemed a little confused. Then he shrugged, looking abashed.

"Oh," he said, trying to be kind, "well, I've never been there before. I wouldn't know. Sorry, I'm not any help with Mistralese forests."

You're a bad person, Azeban Quinn. A bad, bad, bad person! She glanced at her little drawing in the dirt and knelt down to erase it. An idea popped into her head. She could share something with him, if not everything.

"Lean forward," she commanded. He squinted at her but obeyed and presented the length of his brown hair to her. She noted the pristine, classy nature of his haircut before sprinkling some dirt on his scalp.

"Hey!" he whined, shooting up and rubbing his hand through his hair. Azeban laughed and showered her own black hair with the rest of the dirt and shook clouds of it from her head like a dog. Hesh looked at her like she was insane.

"Its good luck," she promised, "my grandmother...told me Hunters did it before going into the wilderness. She said it was about humility and, well, something else I don't remember." Hesh wiped dusty grains of dried mud from his forehead and pretended to be endeared. A girl in a black coat splashed with red whistled at them from nearby. Azeban whispered a swear that Hesh didn't hear.

"Hey, ringtail!" the girl hollered through her cupped hands and drawing more attention than what was at all necessary, "Keep score! We'll see who's the best Huntress!" Azeban gave her a thumbs-up and smiled, dropping it as the girl went by.

"Friend of yours?" Hesh asked.

"No."

...

Headmaster Ozpin and Doctor Goodwitch took the attention of all assembled. The Headmaster looked thin in the face. Glynda had forced him to don sunglasses to hide the bags under his eyes.

"Everyone, please take your places on the marked pads," Ozpin said, "I have a few words to say before the selection begins."

"Yes, of course! Gather round kids. This is a day to celebrate!" Glynda looked over her shoulder. York Duchy was dressed in a white suit with an obnoxious pink shirt, his hair petrified by gel that made it almost sparkle.

Between his smirking lips was a large cigar, the same one she'd ordered him to put out when he first arrived. It took all the personal discipline she'd learned teaching children over the years to not flick her wrist and send him soaring off the cliff.

"Hunter Duchy," she said evenly, "I'll remind you that there's no smoking on campus." York slid the cigar between his teeth and puffed like a steam engine. He ambled up to the cliff's edge to stare down into the forest below.

Years of acting as a spotter for his team hadn't left him yet, and with a few moments of concentration, he found the rustling trees and flocking birds that marked moving Grimm. A roar echoed over the treetops until it reached the cliff as a soft murmur. York croaked a laugh around his stogie.

"Well, Dust and damnation," he said, "glad to see you're still making them fight real Grimm!"

"York if you don't put that out this minute-" Glynda coughed as he blew smoke straight into her face. He grinned with tobacco stained teeth and cast his eyes on the crop of new Hunters once more.

"You'll give me detention, Ms. Goodwitch? Make me write lines on a chalkboard?" His laugh was cut off as the cigar was ripped from his mouth by an unseen force.

It hovered in the air next to Goodwitch's face as she raised an eyebrow at him, then imploded into a ball of burning paper and soared over the edge of the cliff. Goodwitch removed her glasses to clean them of any residue from his smoke.

"We have zero tolerance for smoking on this campus, York." She carefully placed her glasses on and looked down her nose at him. "Interrupt this selection at your own peril," she said, and turned on her heel to the join the Headmaster standing before his students.

"What in the world would the Hunters do without you, miss Goodwitch!" York shouted after her. His face became pinched. He glanced back at the students and noticed many heads whipping away from his face in quick succession.

Geat wanted the low-down on any valuable additions to Haven in case the year ended outside Beacon's favor, but York wasn't impressed by anyone yet and the thought of going back empty handed was starting to make him grumpy. He shooed the on-looking children off with a few gestures of the hand and began fishing into his pocket for another cigar as he stormed off in search of a place to smoke.

"Students," Ozpin said, steadying himself on his cane, "you have each spent years honing your skills to become effective warriors. While each of you performed admirably at the entrance exam, or provided recommendations speaking to your skill, now is your chance to display how you can utilize your abilities in a live combat environment." A few students shuffled their feet or shared uneasy looks.

Rhod rested his hammer on his shoulder, standing a head taller than his peers and feeling a little foolish in all his repurposed mining gear. These were warriors he stood with, not bumpkins with thick arms and a lucky streak. He refused to let his feelings show, determined not to let anyone try and talk him down like those White Fang arses.

He noticed Ohlone, armored in a leather tunic, sturdy sandals, and archer's gloves that made her look like a folkloric marksman. She had a large compound bow on her back, and a small necklace of shells around her neck. She caught him sizing her up and waved at him with rapid rapidly, a big grin on her face. He smiled back and gave her a nod.

Rhod's face was placid but underneath slabs of armor and muscle, his heart was beating faster and faster. The moment of truth was nearly here. Glynda had taken the speech.

"You've each been given a flare gun by this time, loaded with a single red flare. Please remember that firing it at any point before reaching your objective will be considered an automatic mark of ineligibility." Her stare intensified as she began making eye contact with every student she passed. "I'll also remind you all that your own lives are more valuable than any graded test. We cannot intervene with whatever happens to you once you enter the forest. Be aware of your limits. There will always be next year."

Hessian stare hardened as Glynda looked him over. He clutched his sword tight by his side. Thoughts of his father floated through his mind, then of Corvo packing his things and walking out of the Crane estate without a word to anyone. Glynda was well-meaning, but he'd come too far to wait another year. It was today or never.

"Regarding the point of this selection," Glynda continued, "at Beacon, our tradition for centuries has involved the formation of teams consisting of four apprentices. These four are grouped together from a pair of partners. Each group is led by a student chosen by the faculty based on their performance today." Azeban heard Xan hawk and spit from down the line. Glynda paused to make note of Xan's face.

"...You aren't meant to know the credentials we grade you on, so work to succeed in your objective in whatever way feels natural to you."

"Partners are chosen differently," Ozpin interjected as he prepared for the annual reactions to his next words, "simply put, the first student you make eye contact with in the Emerald Forest will be your partner for the next four years." The silence was finally broken by hushed exclamations. Azeban subdued her reaction, her toes curling in their boots as she held her breath. That's how they determine partners?!

"This," Glynda spoke louder to quell the chatter, "is a method that all alumni have undergone and flourished through. It is in keeping with the oldest traditions of the Hunter order, which encourages the cohesion of different warriors through prolonged combat experience."

Oakley and Feral should be here, she thought, not for the first time. She'd had hoped, after the kids launched, to broach the subject with Ozpin, but York had stuck himself into things. The Tai-jitsu was being tracked and cornered as they spoke, but even a moment's difference could spell disaster for the whole selection.

"Moving onto the selection itself," Ozpin said, "your objective is a small collection of ruins at the north end of the forest." His mouth went dry as he calculated the distance between the fence breach and the ruins once more. He'd been telling himself all morning that the distance was great enough, that the tracks weren't pointing towards the ruins anyway, that if it did end up there, his instructors would kill it before any apprentices arrived.

Merely thinking about it made his fingers twitch to check his phone, imaging it was vibrating in his pocket every time he moved his leg. His Hunters had not encountered the monster yet. He refused to consider the possibility that they had met the beast and somehow lost to it.

"Oz," Glynda whispered. The students hadn't quite caught on that something was wrong with their headmaster so he tried to make his voice seem dramatic as he continued.

"This will be a perilous test. You will need to meet every obstacle with your full attention or you.." the words were ingrained in his mind from repetition over the years but he faltered on them this time.

"… will die." There was a pregnant pause as the thought, fleeting and unavoidable, crossed his mind to call the whole thing off. He very nearly did. After they launched, there'd be no going back. As the words to send them all back indoors waited on the tip of his tongue, he saw York in the corner of his eye, glancing around impatiently, awaiting the sound of launchpads loading up.

"Hunt well," Ozpin finally said. Glynda quickly explained the trigger mechanisms they'd be launching from while Ozpin took the opportunity to walk away, getting out of sight from the students while maintaining a posture and stride that looked unsuspicious.

He took out his Scroll and called Oakley.

"We've almost got 'er," she said with the slightest hitch in her voice.

"Where?" He should've called first. He should've waited a few extra minutes in case.

"Near the old Eldritch house," she said. The old house was in the south western corner of the woods, nearly exactly the opposite end of the ruins. Ozpin could feel himself turning a little lighter.

"Excellent. Any estimate? The students are launching as we speak, if we can finish this before they get underway, all the better." Oakley grunted in either effort or anger.

"We're trying, Oz. This critter had all night to cross the forest and we've had to scrap with a few of its friends. Mostly some Imps and Beowulves that got separated from the pack. The others might've spread out, so keep your eyes peeled in the camera room. " The headmaster sighed and stared out at the treetops in the distance, searching for signs of life as York had.

"You've done well, as expected. I know you and Feral can handle this. Be careful."

"Well, it's not us you should be worried about!" Oakley's exhaustion was evident but she appealed once more to Ozpin's sense of duty.

"Oz, you can still stop this. To hell with whatever York will tell the Huntmaster!" she pleaded. "If something goes wrong out here… you won't forgive yourself. None of us will."

He thought of burning tenements and a sky black with columns of smoke. His cane clattered to the sidewalk as he felt sick suddenly. He remembered the sight of Grimm pouring out of a subway. Oz 'the Great and Terrible' hadn't turned away from the monsters when Mountain Glenn went to hell. He collected himself.

"This was exactly what they signed up to do. Kill Grimm. To hunt them and in turn be hunted." Ozpin sounded cold as he spoke, but in his mind, he was thinking of each of them. All thirty-six. He still wrote the acceptance letters by hand, because he believed they were worth the cramp it put in his hand.

They deserved a reception much better than the one he'd given them yesterday. They were going to learn that Hunters have the hardest lives of anyone in the world, and he wouldn't shelter them. They at least deserved his respect, if not his protection.

When this selection was over, he'd make this the best damn school they'd ever attended. He heard a staggered chorus of gas propulsion release as the students were launched into the heart of the Emerald Forest.

Ah, a part of him said, and now all you have is your hindsight, Sage. All you have is what could've been done.

"Oakley," he said, "we owe them our best effort. I will not let them think they came all this way to learn that a school of Hunters grinds to a halt at the first sign of trouble. Adapting to dangerous circumstance is the most important lesson this school teaches."

"Right. Here was me thinking it was 'Hunter never fight alone'. We'll get 'em, Headmaster." She hung up before Ozpin could respond. The headmaster took a deep breath before taking his place next to Glynda.

"They all seemed to land safely. More or less." Glynda faced the Emerald Forest and kept herself collected as Ozpin stood next to her in silence.

"Is York with you?" she hissed.

"Not presently," Ozpin replied after a moment. She searched him, but the sunglasses hid his eyes from her as much as the students.

"I won't bother asking if they caught it," she said, "I'll simply reiterate my question form earlier. Is there a chance that there's anything else wandering the woods? Even a slight hint of something equally as dangerous? Because we'll need our best Huntsmen down there if they missed something."

"They're down there already, Glynda, two of our best. We'll send more as the situation demands." Ozpin didn't look at her as he spoke. For a decade, they had been fighting together to keep Beacon's doors open, and he'd begun to suspect she was, at this point, the only friend he had left who didn't despise him. He was worried what he might find if he looked her in the eyes.

"Another year, another gathering of hopefuls we throw to the wolves," Glynda said while watching the birds scatter from disturbed treetops. Ozpin adjusted the glasses on his nose to press more closely to his face as they departed for the observation room in the CCTS tower. He responded to Glynda, but still refused to look at her.

"Best of luck to them all."

…

Azeban smiled wide as the forest below came closer to her at a gentle crawl. She was not falling but gliding downward lazily like an autumn leaf. She had been making these kinds of descents to the ground since the day she'd slipped from the top of a High Crimson redwood tree and discovered her graceful powers.

Her mother told her how 'floating' was an ability born from the soul; the city people called them semblances nowadays, but every kingdom had once called them something different.

Learning that she was not the first in the family to float had disappointed her at first, but it later only encouraged her to practice the power until her skills with it were remarkable.

While gliding downward, she found a perfect hole in the canopy to enter through and made herself a tad heavier as she aimed her legs for a landing. They planted on the higher branches of an oak tree and Azeban sighed with satisfaction as she breathed in the grass and leaf scent of the wilderness.

She could tell from her perch that the ruins were a far way north from where she clung to the treetop, but instead of moving forward she turned to the east and leaped for the nearest branches. Hesh had been tossed somewhere east from where she'd landed.

She leaped from branch to branch with practiced hops and skips, taking big leaps to bridge canopies too wide to bother circling. It was relaxing to move like this, keeping her focused on things other than her thoughts. She had determined to find Hessian and partner with him before he had a chance to find anyone else.

She knew him best and he had a kind disposition that made it easy to be around him. She didn't like the idea of making too many more friends before having to leave. If it were only Hessian, it would be easier. Hopefully.

But while leaping and bounding across the forest ceiling, she wondered if that was fair. Hessian would need a new partner if she left next year, and who could say how easy it was to get a new one? Surely they wouldn't abandon Hessian if he lost his partner, they'd certainly have some other way for him to graduate… but what that contingency plan could be escaped her. There would be no extra students once this test grouped everyone together. The feeling of the sun on her back began to burn a little hotter.

He'd be down a partner, and on a three-person team, because she'd needed someone to do homework with? Someone who wouldn't give her too much fuss while they did assignments? He'd seemed so determined to come to Beacon up until then. How could she stomach herself if she was knowingly sabotaging him like that? How could she throw anyone under the bus like that?

Her stray thoughts were interrupted by something hard and smooth that smacked the bridge of her nose as she made another wide leap. She caught a branch and perched herself on it, taking a minute to pinch her nose.

Ouch.

Looking around for the culprit, she noticed dangling up above her was a recognizable shape that glistened with a recognizable shade of red.

It was Hesh's sword, minus its wielder. The beautiful sheathe was unmistakable even while tangled in a branch, the white feather tassel wound around the top serving as a dead giveaway. The whole belt must've slipped right off him as he flew.

"Oh, poor Hesh" she giggled, "I hope he doesn't get too worked up about it." She mused briefly on how silly her brothers often looked when they'd fallen through the canopies back home; their clothes decorated with leaves and confused bugs all glued to their bodies by sap. As the blade came loose from the treetops grip, she nearly dropped it when her ears filled with a growl thundering from off in the far distance.

The sound was new to her, not like any Grimm calls she'd heard in High Crimson. As the echo of the roar faded, the forest refilled itself with its natural ambient noises. Azeban then realized something. Hesh was nowhere near, but she was holding the Final Word. That meant the boy was running around among Grimm without a sword to support him.

"Let's get you to where you can do some good," she whispered to the blade. A length of climbing weed made for a decent strap that kept the sword secured across her back. She crept out to examine the trees nearby for broken twigs that could serve as a trail from Hesh's fall to the earth.

Another roar resounded nearby, this one much more familiar. An Ursa Major, she could wager. It was quickly followed by the ring of gunshots. Hesh has a gun she thought. Azeban leaped down to the lower branches and found her rhythm again going from tree to tree, pausing to listen for the row.

The gunfight was happening right below her now, and she could hear an Ursa's furious huffs as claws scraped the dirt and the gunshots stayed at a distance. Listening closely, she heard a warlike whooping that didn't resemble Hesh's voice. A bullet suddenly whizzed through the tree tops and nearly caught the tip of her right ear, causing her to yelp from surprise.

Whoever they are, their aim could use work. She leaped off the stiffest part of her branch and shot out into the battle. Staring down below, she found the white spine and black fur of a snarling beast.

She became light as a feather while unsheathing Dawnlander from her belt. Once out and at full length, she aimed the pike-end toward the Ursa's back. The fray continued as she readied herself by clamping the shaft between her legs. She awaited the moment when a soft portion of flesh stood out. When the time was right, she released her semblance and began to fall at full speed.

Dawnlander landed on its mark before she did, sinking deep into the creature's back until it was lodged as firm as a flagpole in the earth. The Grimm erupted in an agonized wail before it reared backward in a powerful motion that nearly bucked Azeban loose from her weapon. She grappled onto Dawnlander as the beast began to flail its monstrous claws around in a desperate frenzy.

"Whoo Hoo! Got 'em now, ringtail!" Called a raucous voice followed by wild gunfire. Azeban could tell from the first word shouted that she'd run into Xan, and the thought made a portion of her will to fight shrivel. She nonetheless turned a touch lighter to more easily cling to her weapon as she struggled to lurch it free.

As the beast threw its weight side to side, the debris of tree trunks being slashed by its claws flew in Azeban's face and made her grip weaker. Before she fully lost ahold of her weapon, a pair of gunshots went off and the Ura's muscles beneath her heels suddenly went lax.

She felt the beast begin to fall backward and quickly leaped away from being squashed beneath its back. It tumbled to the ground and began to liquefy into a puddle of black ooze that reeked something foul. While collecting her weapon from the sizzling pile of mush, Azeban heard a pair of heavy boots squish the grass and goo as they swaggered up to her.

"Well, thanks for the assist, you cheeky ace! Unnecessary as it was..." Azeban's felt her soul frown as she heard the smirk already on the girls face. She clenched her teeth and tried not to scream in frustration. Then a light flicked on in her brain. We haven't locked eye! Its doesn't count! The thought was cut short when a big grin appeared in front of her. She punched Azeban's shoulder, making the girl want to gouge her own eyes out.

"No problem, Xan," she forced out through her teeth, "are you alright?" The blonde gunslinger quirked a smile at her. She rested her hands on an ox leather belt and tipped her massive hat upward with the barrel of her revolver.

"That was nothing, Ringtail. Slow and dumb, that's how the Younger Brother made Ursa. Glad I've finally met someone who knows a thing or two about fighting out here though," she growled while glaring at a row of rustling bushes. "Though not soon enough."

"You already have a partner!" Azeban shouted with glee before looking away from Xan's apologetic gaze.

"Sad but true," Xan mumbled. "Hey, pretty boy, get out here! The Grimm is dead, as is any chance of you earning my respect." Azeban's ear twitched at the sound of metal clanking.

Crawling out from the bushes was a block of steel armor that formed the set of a Mistral soldier straight from a history text. The boy inside was rubbing his armored fingers at a bushel of tangleweed that was entwined within the crannies of his armor plates, snaring him to a nearby tree.

"Oh, wonderful. I bet your ancestors are just beaming with pride right now," Xan said as she rolled her eyes. The figure in armor began to turn his head in random directions as he searched his surroundings.

"You found someone else?" a voice echoed from behind his helmet's visor. "Whoever you are, could you please help? I can't get this helmet off." Azeban approached and knelt down to get a better look. The boy peeked out of the helmet's slits with an apologetic look in his eyes.

Azeban grabbed his helmet by the edge of its cheek plate and lifted it carefully.

Wavy wheat locks crowned a face that fit Xan's nickname to the point. He certainly was very pretty, making Azeban's cheeks darken subtly. He had the look of a classical statue from Arche's historic quarter, but something about his eyes bespoke a more fragile nature, as if that statue was made of porcelain instead of marble.

"Thanks." He said the words like an apology before turning to glare at Xan. "She's been no help at all."

"Look who's talking," Xan moaned in annoyance, "I haven't seen you do anything but hide behind that shield of yours all morning!" The boy gasped and dove back into the bushes, leaving Azeban with his crest to admire the fine craftsmanship of the helmet.

"You're Mistralese too, aren't you?" Azeban asked. The boy stood up with a large shield of banded bronze and posed like he was ready to give a victory speech.

"Yes!" he blushed and cleared his throat, "Yes, I am. Perseus Bronze. Thank you for helping us with that Ursa." Xan gave a bark of a laugh.

"'Us'? How'd you contribute to all that, pretty boy?" The thought made her smile. "Tell me, were you getting tangled in weeds to lower its guard? Or wear it down with second-hand embarrassment?" Xan laughed by herself as she began to reload her guns. Perseus gave Azeban a look of suffering.

"I've got an Uncle just like her," he said quietly, "laughs at his own jokes and everything." Azeban nodded and scuffed the ground, unsure of how to respond. She handed him his helmet back, noting that the whole of his armor set was hanging loose on his scrawny frame.

"Try not to let her get to you," she whispered, "my name is Azeban Quinn. Are you Xan's partner?" A flood of relief came when he nodded, looking abjectly miserable.

"Unless…hey, Xanthus, how about we trade partners?" Azeban's tail went rigid and she held herself back from decking the boy out of sheer terror.

"Brilliant, pretty boy. Toss me to the wolves and weigh her down with you. And stop with the 'Xanthus' crap, aye? It's Xan. You sound like me dad." Azeban could have laughed with joy.

"I meant you and her could be partners. It doesn't matter to me who I end up with, I just don't want to be your partner. Besides, you two are friends already, right Xanthus?"

This is a nightmare, Azeban bargained, I got knocked out fighting the Ursa and this is a bad dream I'm having.

"Now, you call me 'Xanthus' again and see how I get when I'm pissesd! And stow the talk of trading partners. Tempting as that sounds," Xan said, "me answer is still 'no'. Rules are rules, pretty boy, we're stuck with each other. For now, at least. Or were you hiding when Ozpin told us all that as well?"

"All you've done since I met you is complain about how this school works!" Perseus shouted. Azeban resisted any inkling to voice her agreement, as things were finally working out for her.

"When I wasn't busy downing your share of Grimm while you hid in a bush, pretty boy," Xan said as she scoped out a new path through the trees, "and ringtail here could tell you that I've got my eyes on a new academy come the year's end. I won't risk my chances of getting in because I couldn't toe the line for a few months." Xan gestured her way and whistled sharply. Perseus began to follow her with a suffering look on his face. He placed his helmet over his hair and fixed it so he could see.

"Nice meeting you anyway, Azeban," he said glumly. Xan spun around as she entered the woods, long tangleweed vines brushing her shoulders as she backpedaled. Azeban watched the weeds sway, squinting. Some seemed to be moving unnaturally.

"See ya around, ringtail," Xan called back with her old sense of joyfulness, "and make sure you keep score. I'm already at-" her words were transformed into a hacking cry as a bristly black vine snapped around her throat and constricted her windpipe. Another restrained her arm and they both began to wrench her up off the ground. Azeban froze in place and watched as Xan's brave blue eyes dart around in confused fear.

The brazen girl grew silent as she ascended past the branches. She looked meek and limp now, like a tangled marionette being removed by a hurried puppeteer. Azeban was shaken from her trance by the sound of Perseus shouting in terror.

"Up there!" He called as he pointed to a tree branch above. Azeban's sharp eyes landed on a gathering of black bodies crouching together high up above them. A pair of telltale faceplates bobbed as the Grimm chattered to each other, their bodies shaped like little tree primates, baring their fangs in high pitched shrieks. Two dangled its tail down like a pair of fishing lines as two others used their tiny, rat-like hands to pull them up, reeling Xan in toward the treetops. She was dangling far off the ground now, moving less and less.

Azeban's Dawnlander gleamed in the daylight as she raced across the forest floor with its curved blade aimed at the monkey Grimm's tail.

"W-wait, Azeban!" Perseus' words missed her as she leaped into the air and spun. The blade sliced Xan loose from her captors and she fell to the ground like a ton of bricks.

The duo of monkey shaped Grimm she'd mutilated cackled at her while bounding off from tree to tree. Azeban exhaled with a sense of relief that disappeared when she looked down at Xan. The tails on her arm and throat were only growing tighter.

"They're Imps!" Perseus cried. "The tails don't vanish if you cut them off!" Xan's off hand moved to her Helsing, but the tails wrapping around her shrank a size smaller as they continued to stretch their ends farther apart. Her face started turning an alarming shade of red. Azeban began to feel nauseous.

Trying to move quickly, Azeban took her Dawnlander's blade and shrunk the pole into a manageable grip before pressing the sharpened curve of her blade against the coil of tails. Xan could feel Azeban begin to push into the mess of black vine and the feeling was like being slowly done away with at a dull-bladed guillotine.

She tried to shake her head no, but without the room or strength to do so she looked like she was simply writhing in pain. Perseus reached a hand out in a flash and clutched Azeban's shoulder, pushing it away.

"It's too dangerous! You could cut straight through her neck too!" Azeban blinked at him rapidly as she imagined herself forcing Dawnlander through Grimm and human flesh alike.

"Then what can we do?" she asked, voice cracking. Xan's ragged gasping was becoming weaker. Taking one glance at Xan's puffing face as tears streamed from her eyes both students' blood went ice-cold.

Azeban knew death happened in High Crimson. No year went by that someone didn't die, even if her family had been blessedly spared. She'd never seen someone dying in front of her. And the idea that Xan might suffocate right here and now made her hands start to tremble.

Xan drew her gun from its holster with shaking hands, popping open the cylinder and clawing out the bullets inside. The tails on her arm suddenly constricted, and her bullets tumbled away from her grasp. Percy scrambled for one and held it up to the light. Behind a translucent casing, bright red dust glowed with faint fire.

"The Dust! Fire might just work!" Percy practically screamed. Seeing what the boy had in mind, Azeban snatched one from the ground. She held her weapon's blade up, intending to scrape the primer loose from the case, but her blade felt big and clumsy. Her palms began to turn sweaty as she worked, time ticking away in her head.

Looking over toward Percy, she realized he was already ahead of her. He'd produced a tiny knife, likely a tool rather than a weapon, and was already prying a bullet open. Red sparks began to pop and made an arch of fire from his grasp, singing him on a finger and making him wince. Azeban raised her weapon to the font of fire in time to collect the flaming Dust on Dawnlander's blade, then raised it to the Grimm's tail like a torch, setting it alight. After a few moments of burning the tail began to break away from its grip on Xan's throat. Azeban pulled them away as it loosened, growling at it as the thing writhed like a snake.

Xan's breathing was torn and hard, but Azeban considered it music. Her face fell when she saw the damage to Percy's finger, which he rubbed as he watched his partner breath. Xan's aura sparked, bright and strong, and her breaths began to even out. She wheezed and gestured for Azeban's blade, who offered it and watched as Xan pressed the searing hot steel against the second Imp's tail until it slid off her arm.

"Thanks…" Xan coughed out the spit flooding her throat as she tried to right herself. "Thanks for that." When Perseus tried to help steady Xan from behind, she swung her shoulder off of his palm and gave him a scowl. Azeban leaned forward and spoke up.

"Percy… I couldn't have done it without him." She said, then looked at him and smiled softly, her eyes glistening as she imagined if she'd been alone.

"Well, guess that makes you and me even, pretty boy," Xan said, spitting again while she focused on returning her spare bullets to their chamber. She looked back up toward the trees with death in her eyes. Percy said nothing as he rubbed his burnt finger, the fear of the moment still etched deep in his face.

"Point me after those little shits."

Azeban gave her best estimation, not bothering to argue against the action. Xan was out for blood, and Azeban doubted she'd be dissuaded from hunting the Imps down.

"Xan...take a minute at least," Percy said. She looked at her partner with a fiery scowl as she stood tall, salvaging her remaining sense of pride.

"Follow me or don't. Your choice. But I won't sit here nursing my bruises." Azeban watched the two apprentices disappear into the Emerald Forest. She was alone once more and surrounded by the echoes of other battles.

She wondered how many were balancing on a knife's edge like Xan's had a moment ago. Xan's face, teary-eyed and discolored, was still engrained in her mind.

Her imagination began to torment her as she swapped Xan's face with others she'd seen recently, with the faces of students she'd noticed in the locker room, with her family members, and eventually her own face. She swallowed and rubbed her throat. Feeling her fingers brush the strap on her shoulder, she remembered the Final Word was on her back. Hesh was still without his weapon. And possibly, alone with a Grimm wrapped around his neck.

Running to a tree, she managed her way up to a higher elevation and started leaping from branch to branch again. As the waves of green leaves rushed past her in her stride, she thought of how they had never seemed so scary until now.

...

Somewhere else in the woods, the screeching primates showed their thoughts to the greater mind that had been leading them. That elderly Grimm sat in the shadows of trees, its neck arched toward the ground and ears swiveling back and forth. It felt ponderous thoughts swirl through its mind.

A massive haze of dozens of smaller eyes saw on its behalf all across the forest. Some flared with heat and hatred as they spotted humans from their hiding spots, others remained dim with disuse, and several were blinking out completely as their thoughts were scrambled by deathblows. Humans were near, and they could fight.

It had nearly given in to the impulse to go find the snake that morning. Two human faces had lit up their blur of minds with flashes of carnage as the pair ripped into their lesser ranks, beckoning nearby young ones to come and kill. Then more humans had begun falling into the black expanse of thought, instilling a new purpose into the elderly Grimm. It stayed perched in the shadows, grasping at lesser minds and pointing them in new directions.

A hard-won intelligence forged over the years now held it in place. It could read the pathway of death carving toward its direction. It could be patient.

The humans were already heading its way.

xxx

Editor Note:

All forms of feedback are welcome, so please leave a review if you like. This story will upload new chapters on a weekly basis, so check back the following Sunday for an update. Thank you for reading!


End file.
